


Into the Fire

by Baniac



Series: Child of Darkness [3]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, Gen, Origin Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-07 22:50:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 60
Words: 173,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1125323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baniac/pseuds/Baniac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story follows Bane from his excommunication from the League of Shadows through the events of "The Dark Knight Rises."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the third novel in my Bane trilogy. However, it can be read as a stand-alone story as well.

            Bane awoke to birdsongs and the golden fall of morning sunlight splayed across the marble floor of his spacious, glittering room. From the large bed where he lay sprawled like some lion after a sating kill, he blinked at the light, amazed that he had slept beyond sunrise; he could not recall the last time he had done so. The doors to his private veranda stood open, just as he had left them last night after arriving here. The mild temperatures made it difficult to believe that it was late December. Even more challenging to comprehend was the reality that just a few days ago he had been nearly waist-deep in the snows of the Himalayas.

            Memories caused him to frown and his heart to ache when he thought of those whom he had been forced to abandon at his mountain home mere days ago. No, not his home…no longer that. He was unwelcome at the monastery that the League of Shadows used as their base. The pain of excommunication had grown more and more unbearable the farther he had traveled in his exodus. There had been moments, usually when alone at night, when he had contemplated taking his pistol in hand and ending his life, for the unknown future that lay before him was too overwhelming. But the same stubborn spirit that had carried him through twenty-five years in a hellish subterranean prison would not allow him to meekly give in to despair now.

            He lay with only a satin sheet covering his half naked form, but he was not chilled. Bane much preferred cooler temperatures; prison had adapted him to such. There warmth had been achieved only by lighting charcoal braziers. Fire had been the primitive source of the monastery’s warmth as well. He was accustomed to such simplicity, such hardships. That was why he lingered in bed now, simply staring around the room in disbelief at the opulent décor. He had been too exhausted last night to admire his surroundings; he had cared only to collapse amidst the pillows and sweet-smelling sheets of the broad, beckoning bed. Now, with the streaming natural light growing stronger by the minute, the room’s beauty took on a new glory.

            Like the breathtaking reception hall downstairs that he had passed through last night, his room was painted with colorful frescos and murals. Rich red and gold rugs matched the patterned ceiling from which hung a crystal chandelier, a smaller version of the one that sparkled in the hall last night. Even with the light fixture turned off, the chandelier seemed to produce light, catching the reflective sunlight pouring in through the outer doors and dancing it about the room. Highly carved furniture boasted comfortable cushions—also of red and gold—tempting guests to recline.

            The guesthouse—more of a small palace actually, with a multitude of rooms on two levels—lay quiet, and he wondered if he was the only visitor. He had seen no one else upon his arrival except two male servants—the first had met him at the door last night and delivered him to this room where the second met him to attend to anything Bane might need. Considering the opulence of just this lesser building, he could only imagine what the main palace looked like.

            It was altogether fitting that Melisande had once lived amidst such beauty, for to Bane she herself had epitomized beauty. Even now, some eleven years after her death in prison, Bane could still picture her dusky, graceful form, a young woman who gave birth to an equally beautiful girl named Talia not long after coming to the pit prison. Bane smiled beneath his grotesque mask, a breathing apparatus that covered his mouth and what remained of his nose, its function to deliver a constant medicinal vapor to alleviate the lingering pain of old injuries suffered in prison. Bane’s smile was a private one when he considered Melisande’s daughter, nearly seventeen years old now; no longer a girl but a young woman. A young woman whom he loved dearly, one who had physically offered herself to him as a precious farewell gift on his last night at the monastery. Closing his eyes, he relived that experience, his first lovemaking, as he had relived it many times since his exile. Such thoughts had sustained him on his long journey from Bhutan to India and the western state of Rajasthan. Had Talia known beforehand how her kindness would have such lasting effects? He wondered if she, too, thought fondly of that night, and if such memories eased the pain of separation.

            Then his thoughts returned to his room, to this place, a sprawling, palatial compound near the Thar Desert, the home of Talia’s grandparents. Beautiful in appearance, yes, but Bane knew the ugliness that lived here, the evil; an evil that taunted Bane, for though he wished with every fiber of his being to seek out that darkness and destroy it for what had been done to Melisande, he knew, for Talia’s sake, he could not. His vengeance, at least for now, must be denied.

            Bane left his bed and donned a plush white bathrobe that lay neatly folded on a low chest near the footboard. Tying the belt loosely, he padded across the cool floor and stepped out onto the veranda. The jumbled conversation of birds roosting on the rooftop railings went on unabated. The palace compound spread out in all directions. The guesthouse, a two-story stone structure of pale tan, yellow, and ivory, was situated in the center of a large courtyard, the first of several connected courtyards. Dominating everything, the main palace arose to the south, some six stories high, glimmering pale and resplendent in the sunlight spilling over the surrounding barren, rocky hills. Like the guesthouse, it was ringed with screened verandas. The architecture was an interesting blend of Islamic and Rajput with a touch of European flare.

            Briefly Bane went back inside, long enough to replenish the two small canisters at the rear of his mask. As the fresh supply of opiate writhed through the small tubes connecting the canisters to the front of the mask, Bane breathed deeply then returned to the veranda, taking with him a large cushion. There in the mild warmth he made himself comfortable and closed his eyes to meditate, to carry forward the energy renewed from such a welcomed night of rest and to prepare himself emotionally for the audience that lay ahead.

            “Sir?” a soft but persistent voice worked its way through Bane’s mental barrier some twenty minutes later. “Excuse me for disturbing you, sir.”

            Bane took in one final deep, cleansing breath, then exhaled, the mask amplifying the sound. Opening his eyes, he turned only his head to see a male servant hovering near the veranda doors, a young Arab with nervous hands and a distinct inability to know where to look while in Bane’s presence. The mask, of course, as well as Bane’s formidable size produced similar reactions from others. When he was younger, such behavior agitated Bane, but now he almost reveled in it, knowing he was instantly at an advantage without even saying a word or making a single gesture.

            “Your breakfast is ready, sir,” the servant said in halting English. His gaze darted at the mask then downward, and he seemed about to inquire as to how Bane managed to eat, but discretion stayed his tongue.

            “Thank you.”

            “She is expecting you at ten. I will return for you in half an hour’s time.”

            “Very well.”

            The servant hurried from the room.

            Bane returned inside where a tray of food awaited him on a small table just off the veranda. His mouth twitched in a pleased smile when he found cooked oats, soft fruits and breads, along with yogurt, accompanied by juice and tea. No doubt Maysam’s thoughtfulness was behind the easily-ingested selection. She knew much about him, thanks to Talia’s regular letters and other forms of communication.

            Before removing the mask to eat, he injected himself with morphine, a small dose to sustain him through the quick meal as well as a hasty bath. Then, dressed in clean clothes and wearing the mask once again, he was ready when the attendant returned to escort him to Maysam.

            He was led across the courtyard, the sun bouncing off the pavement, causing him to squint. The courtyard boasted only a few trees, and those were small and mainly ornamental, offering little shade. The cloudless sky promised a pleasant day, and though Bane usually preferred cloud cover, today he welcomed the brightness, for it lifted his spirits and gave him an unexpected surge of hope. Such thoughts put him in mind of Daniel Goleman’s study of emotional intelligence: “Having hope means that one will not give in to overwhelming anxiety, a defeatist attitude, or depression in the face of difficult challenges or setbacks.” Ah, yes, but Goleman had never been in the pit prison nor had he ever been banished from all that he loved.

            To reach the adjoining courtyard, they passed through an ornate gate whose archway was painted riotous colors and boasted motifs of stucco peacocks, resplendent with their fanned tail feathers painted behind them on the curved arch. This second courtyard lay broad and empty of structures or vegetation. The attendant led the way to the south gate, this one a heavy golden door whose archway was decorated with waves of vibrant green, reminding Bane of a field of unripe winter wheat. Once through, a much larger, landscaped courtyard spread out before him. Here there were gardeners and others moving about, enjoying the fresh, breezeless air. Family members perhaps? All of them turned curious eyes in his direction, but he paid them no heed, staring instead ahead at the palace rising before him at the opposite end of the courtyard. The village that lay beyond the compound walls could not be heard, as if this place were the entire universe and nothing else existed.

            Bane guessed this main building to be centuries old, and he wondered how Talia’s family had acquired it. Had past generations lived here or had her grandfather ripped it from the grasp of another family? Bane imagined Melisande growing up here, thought of how she had been forced from such wealth and comfort to the horrific world of the pit prison when her secret marriage to the infidel Henri Ducard had been discovered by her father. What if she had been allowed to stay here and later gave birth to Talia? How different Talia’s life would be now. Bane frowned; they never would have met.

            “Sometimes the memory of your loved one is just poison in your veins,” Ducard—or Rā’s al Ghūl, as he was known in the League—had once said to Bane in a rare moment of candor. “And one day you catch yourself wishing the person you loved had never existed, so you would be spared your pain.”

            Though Bane understood Rā’s’ point, for he knew that agony all too well, he could not imagine ever wishing that he had not met Melisande. Her kindness and beauty had stolen his heart almost immediately. And if she had not been sent to the pit, if she had not lived in the cell next to his, he would have become something else entirely, a true criminal with no humanity, and he would have never been rescued by Rā’s al Ghūl following Talia’s escape. Without Talia’s testimony of Bane’s protection, he would have been killed by Rā’s and his men, as all the other prisoners save the doctor and three of Bane’s allies had been killed once Rā’s learned of the prisoners’ rape and murder of his wife.

            The marble arches of the palace gate soared above Bane now, the passage guarded by two armed men. Their eyes raked him from top to bottom. Soldiers, not mere guards. Mercenaries perhaps. No doubt Melisande’s father had only the best men to protect his family and his assets. Rā’s al Ghūl had once been counted among such men, favored by Melisande’s father until the Westerner’s carnal betrayal.

            Entering the gate, Bane stepped into a large, columned audience hall. Pale reds and golds patterned the ceiling here as they did in Bane’s room. Illumination from sunlight through the open sides, which led to other courtyards, made the hall’s crystal chandeliers superfluous during the day, though their beauty caught Bane’s admiring eye. His boots echoed on the white marble floors as he passed ivory-colored pillars, his gaze touching upon paintings that depicted ancient conquests. They passed through this cavernous hall and back out into the sun. A few steps more and they were at the door of the palace proper. More armed guards, impassive.

            Once inside, the servant led Bane to a broad, sweeping staircase with rich red carpet. He noted other servants, all moving with purpose, dressed immaculately, their eyes widening when they saw the strange-looking guest. Up the winding stairs to an elevator, barely large enough for the two of them. Though an obvious modern addition, the elevator was not overly efficient, ascending far too slowly for Bane who felt claustrophobic in its confines.

            Three floors upward, and they debarked, turning right and coming at last to the open doors of a long veranda that overlooked the last courtyard through which they had traveled. There the servant suddenly turned to Bane, a hand raised to halt him just inside the doors, a stern expression on his dark face.

            “One moment, sir,” the servant said then stepped onto the veranda and moved beyond sight. Bane could hear the servant speaking to someone in Arabic, answered by a male voice. Stiffening, Bane wondered if Melisande’s father was with Maysam. An immediate wave of hatred caused Bane’s fingers to twitch, and he thought of his pistol, which had been confiscated upon his arrival on the grounds last night.

            The servant returned. “Right this way, sir.”


	2. Chapter 2

            The palace’s north-facing veranda received slanting sunlight from the east at this time of year. Stanchions threw long, thin shadows while morning light sifted through decorative screens, reflecting an intricate pattern onto the sandstone tiles. Amidst this contrast of light and dark stood Maysam, dressed in flowing black _abaya_ and a salmon-colored _hijab_ , having arisen from a wrought iron table. An austere Arabic man who appeared close to her age also stood near the white table. At the unexpected sight of him, Bane stiffened, and a rush of anger raced through his veins, clenching his fists. Was this Melisande’s father? No, surely Maysam would have found a way to keep her spouse away from this meeting.

            “ _Assalamu_ _’alaykum_ ,” Bane greeted them with a slight bow.

            “ _Wa ’alaykum us salaam_ ,” the man responded, his expression fraught with something close to revulsion at the sight of Bane’s mask.

            In contrast, Maysam swept around the table with a broad, welcoming smile, her eyes so like Melisande’s, shining with happiness like two burning coals. Considering the strictness of Islam, Bane was surprised when she took his hand in both of hers, saying, “I am so pleased to see you, Haris,” using the Arabic name which she had bestowed upon him when they had first met some twelve years ago.

            “Maysam,” the other man sternly growled, trying to hide his outrage at her boldness.

            Without freeing Bane, she shot a look over her shoulder. “Forgive my brother, Haris. Ayman forgets that you are, to me, as cherished as a family member. Now please sit down. You have eaten, yes?”

            “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

            Ayman sputtered, “Sister, I must protest. Your husband—”

            “My husband is not here.”

            “Which is why I am.”

            “Not any longer. Your presence is unnecessary.”

            “It is most certainly necessary.” Ayman’s face had turned an indignant plum color.

            Still standing, Bane interjected, “I don’t wish to dishonor you.”

            “Never could you do such a thing,” Maysam assured, her stare remaining upon her sibling. “I must remind my brother of the debt we both owe you.”

            A muscle twitched along Ayman’s jawline.

            “Now please, brother, leave us.”

            Maysam’s iron resolve in the face of religious tenets made Bane smile behind the mask. It was plain to see where Melisande and Talia had gotten their stubbornness and courage.

            With a warning glance at Bane, Ayman grumbled something to himself before finally obeying his sister. Bane had no doubt that Ayman would remain somewhere close at hand.

            “Please, Haris,” Maysam gestured to a chair.

            “Thank you.”

            Once they were both settled at the little table, Maysam started to pour tea into her cup, but then caught herself and halted. Bane suspected she did so out of consideration for his inability to drink through the mask.

            “I am so happy to see you again,” she smiled. “Though it has been many years since we first met at that horrible clinic, in some ways it seems just like yesterday, no doubt because of Talia’s letters. As you probably know, she has kept me abreast of the happenings in your life. She has shared pictures with me as well.”

            Bane tried to hide his concern over such things, for if Maysam’s husband discovered that Melisande had given birth to an infidel’s child, there was no telling what measures would be taken to assure that Talia would never attempt to claim any sort of birthright.

            “Don’t worry, Haris.” Maysam’s eyes fairly twinkled with conspiracy. “I would never endanger Talia.”

            Bane shifted his weight, sheepish. “Of course not.”

            “She got her hands on her father’s satellite phone the day after you departed and called me. She was saddened to learn that you had left that morning without saying good-bye. But she said to tell you that she understood why.” Now sadness and anger darkened her mild expression. “She told me the reasons behind your departure. I am so sorry it came to this. She is heartbroken as I’m sure you are as well.”

            To hear someone actually express sympathy and understanding, especially one so far removed from the situation, touched Bane.

            “Of course,” Maysam continued, “she pleaded with me to send for her, to let her join you here. But I asked of your instructions to her before leaving because I knew you would not want her to abandon her education. It took some prodding on my part—she is a stubborn one, is she not?—but she finally admitted that you had insisted she stay in school.”

            “I fear she will continue to look for other ways to abandon her studies, if for nothing else than as a way to punish her father.”

            “Then we must continue to be insistent with her.”

            Bane frowned. “I won’t have much influence now.”

            “You are mistaken, Haris. You will always have influence over her. She loves you very much; you know that. And she always will.”

            “As I love her.” The words slipped off his tongue too easily. He cleared his throat. “Her father will not approve of her staying in contact with me.”

            “Perhaps not, but if he is adamant there are ways she can conceal such things; she could contact you through me, for example.”

            “I don’t want to drag you into any of this, ma’am.”

            She smiled indulgently. “You must call me Maysam.”

            “I have already taken too many liberties simply by coming here.”

            “Nonsense. When I first offered my assistance many years ago and so many times since, I meant it, and I am so pleased that you have finally accepted. You do me great honor.”

            “I’m sure your husband would disagree, especially if he were to see me.”

            “Although my husband is currently away on business, trust me when I say he would have no _open_ objection to you being here. He knows I have never forgiven him for what he did to our daughter, and he knows you helped her as much as possible when you were both in that terrible place. I kept none of that from him; in fact, I have used it as a weapon against him many times, so often that perhaps now he truly does regret his actions. But, of course, such regret is hollow to me with my daughter long dead.” She sighed and lifted her gaze from where it had fallen into her lap. “Talia, however, remains hidden from him. Perhaps when he is an old man I will be able to speak of her.”

            Bane’s fingers twitched. If he had his way, Siddig El Fadil would not live to see old age. But, as usual, he cautioned his impulses, for unknown to Siddig, some of his funds found their way indirectly to Talia. After Rā’s al Ghūl learned of the warlord’s part in Melisande’s imprisonment, the powerful leader of the League of Shadows would have exacted his revenge without mercy if not for Maysam’s staying hand. The clever woman had placated Rā’s with a promise to have some of her husband’s assets funneled to the League in secret, an ongoing source of money. This arrangement not only benefited the League but also allowed Maysam a modicum of revenge on her spouse by supporting Talia financially.

            In an even softer voice, Maysam continued, “When Talia escaped that horrible place and came to me, I realized why you had refused my offer of freedom that day I met you.” Her smile trembled. “You told me it was because of Melisande; you didn’t want to abandon her. But after I learned of Talia’s existence, I knew that it was also because of Talia. And Allah be praised that you did return to her, for without you she never would have escaped.”

            Unused to such flattery, Bane could not look at Maysam, his attention roaming instead across the black and white floor tiles, swept clean and washed, reflecting the sunlight.

            “She still has nightmares about that day,” Maysam said, “the day of her escape. Has she told you that?”

            Unsure of his voice, Bane simply shook his head, remembered his own nightmares of that day. It pained him to hear of Talia’s hidden torments; of course she would have kept such things from him; his brave _habibati_.

            “But her nightmares aren’t about herself, Haris. They are about you, about looking down during her climb and seeing your attackers overwhelm you. She saw your good-bye upon your lips; she said you never cried out, never begged for mercy from your attackers. She said you were like a lamb to slaughter.”

            Bane’s lips twisted wryly beneath the mask; he had certainly never been likened to a lamb before. But of course his Talia would use such benevolent imagery; he was no monster to her.

            “It is a terrible burden that she will always bear, knowing how much her freedom cost you and what it continues to cost you.”

            “I’ve tried to discourage her from thinking that way,” Bane said. “But I know I can’t stop those feelings, no more than I can stop how I feel about Melisande’s death—I wish I could have saved her, I wish I could have saved them both. I’m sorry.”

            Maysam placed her warm hand over his and waited until he dragged his gaze back to her. “You have already apologized to me too many times over the years, Haris. No more. There is no need.” She withdrew her hand. “Now let us speak no more of the past but instead of your future.” She settled back in her chair. “You are no stranger to the reality of my husband’s enterprises. Such enterprises require trustworthy, trained men. Talia has told me of your leadership qualities as well as your superior physical skills. But because I know you would be loath to work directly for my husband, I instead would have you work for me, as one of my personal bodyguards. As it turns out, one of my men will be leaving soon, so your timing is fortuitous.”

            Surprised, Bane took a moment to consider his response, not wanting to offend in any way. “Your offer is a generous one. I am deeply honored. But, in truth, I think it would be best if I kept my distance from your husband. I am neither a forgiving nor a tolerant man. I hope my declination does not offend you.”

            With a dismissing wave of her hand, Maysam said, “Of course not; I understand, and I appreciate your candor. But won’t you consider it at least as a temporary post until I am able to find other employment for you?”

            “If you have no other options at this time… Yet surely your husband’s men could provide me with contacts to known mercenaries, for I am afraid that is all I am suited to in this world.”

            Maysam’s solicitous expression displayed her maternal side. “Haris, both Talia and I know you are so much more than merely a hired gun. You must give me time to investigate other avenues of employment. If I had known about your situation sooner—but of course how could any of us have known?—I would already have acquired other alternatives for you.”

            “Sister,” Ayman’s gruff voice turned them both toward the door. “Barsad is here to see you.” Ayman looked pleased with this interruption, no doubt wanting to show Bane that he was not always cowed by his sibling.

            Irritation twitched one of Maysam’s eyebrows, and she seemed about to speak in anger toward her brother, but then a sudden thought banished the harshness, and her glance touched upon Bane. “Thank you, brother. Please have him join us.”

            Surprise momentarily immobilized Ayman, and only a directing look from Maysam was able to send him back inside.

            “Perhaps,” Maysam said with a smile that stirred Bane’s curiosity, “the alternative we were hoping for has just presented itself.”

            When Ayman reappeared at the door, escorting another man, it was clear that he would no longer leave his sister alone. Bane sensed that his intent was not out of fear or distrust of this newcomer but instead out of familiarity—he would not allow his sister to wield any power over him in front of someone who knew them. Tolerating it before a stranger had been difficult enough but easily forgotten once the stranger was gone.

            “Barsad,” Maysam said, both she and Bane having stood upon the man’s arrival, “please join us.”

            The smile that had started upon Barsad’s thin, defined lips—a smile for Maysam, of course—had instantly vanished when he saw Bane. The man’s hooded, pale blue eyes quickly masked his surprise at seeing not only a stranger alone with Maysam but one of such disturbing appearance. More than surprise actually; alarm, instinctive and strong, so strong that he took a step toward Bane before catching himself.

            “My apologies, ma’am,” Barsad said with a slight bow. “I wasn’t aware you had a…visitor. I can come back later—”

            “There’s no need,” Maysam insisted. “In fact, your timing is perfect.”

            Confusion wrinkled Barsad’s high, broad forehead.

            “Please, gentlemen.” Maysam gestured to the chairs, returning to her own.

            Remaining on the veranda, Ayman was wise enough to at least sit apart from the other three, enough to placate his sister who wisely made no attempt to banish him a second time.

            Barsad settled between Bane and Maysam, his focus always on the former. Protective, almost defiant…and certainly not intimidated by the muscular stranger. Obviously one of her bodyguards, Bane figured, slightly taken aback not only by the man’s lack of fear but by the way he viewed the mask—not with repugnancy but with intense curiosity, almost fascination. Not an Arab, Bane thought, though the man’s Arabic was fluent; no, not even European…a Westerner it would seem, perhaps American. Thinking of the few Americans whom he had known, Bane wanted to dislike him but found Barsad’s obvious courage compelling. He guessed him to be younger than he but not by much. An obvious soldier in bearing and style, though currently dressed casually. A pistol at his hip, angled away from Bane’s reach.

            “Barsad, this is Bane, the man who arrived last night.”

            Without hesitation, Barsad offered his hand. He took note of Bane’s leather wrist brace as Bane accepted his strong grip.

            Maysam poured a cup of tea for her latest guest. “Barsad has commanded my husband’s security forces for the past five years. Unfortunately he is also the man of whom I spoke when I told you one of our men was leaving soon. It seems life here has become a bit too mundane for our soldier of fortune.” She said it with a smile of regret, though not begrudging the man’s decision.

            “In this case,” Barsad said, tasting the tea, “mundane is a good thing, yes?”

            Maysam chuckled and blushed slightly, surprising Bane and providing a glimpse into her past when she was once Melisande’s age. “Yes, it signifies peace and prosperity. Two things that make Barsad uncomfortable.”

            Now it was Barsad’s turn to chuckle, and Bane realized the man was more to Maysam than just a mercenary. There was a definite friendship between them, a warmth. This alone put Bane more at ease with the stranger.

            “So he is to leave us soon. Bound for the north, to Kashmir, is it not?”

            “Yes, ma’am.” Caution had returned to Barsad’s heavy-lidded eyes.

            “Perhaps Bane and I could convince you to take him with you. He is in need of work. And knowing your resourcefulness, Barsad, I’m sure you will be doing something lucrative in Kashmir. Otherwise, why would you leave this beautiful sun and warmth?”

            All amusement fled Barsad now, though he was judicious enough not to voice the whole truth of his inner reaction. “It was my understanding from what you told me before his arrival that our masked friend would be serving you, ma’am.”

            “That is what I had hoped. But it seems the…climate here would not be suitable to him. He comes from a mountainous region, don’t you, Bane? No doubt the mountains of Kashmir would be most agreeable to him.”

            Bane felt no more at ease with this potential scenario than Barsad apparently did, but he did not want to hurt Maysam in any way or seem ungrateful, especially in front of her ever-watchful brother. So he maintained his silence, content to observe the two and let this conversation play out without his interference or opinion.

            “Bane has years of experience in the field,” Maysam continued lightly, as if convincing a chef to take on a new cook. “International experience. Combat experience. Multiple languages. You will find him very much a man after your own heart, Barsad, I assure you.” Maysam turned her focus to Bane. “I have no doubt Barsad would have fit in well with the men to whom you are accustomed, Haris. And you will not find a better shot, at any range, with any weapon.”

            One corner of Barsad’s mouth twitched with good humor. “I will have you know, Bane, that Maysam has a reputation in this region for matchmaking. It appears her skills reach even into the ranks of the paramilitary.”

            When Maysam laughed, her cheeks coloring once again, neither man could keep from joining in.

            “Forgive me,” she said. “I don’t wish to force either of you to do something you are not comfortable with. But you both know me well enough to trust my judgment surely?”

            “There are few whose judgment I trust more,” Barsad said with that almost private smile between them, one that made Ayman clear his throat unhappily.

            “Then you will think about it? Both of you? And perhaps later, after such consideration, you can discuss it between yourselves.” Her arched eyebrows lifted hopefully, and the smile came again. “Without the presence of a meddling old woman, yes?”


	3. Chapter 3

            The sun had fallen behind the surrounding rocky hills, and Bane’s supper had been eaten before he saw Barsad again. He had almost given up on the man and looked forward to an early retreat to that wonderful bed when his servant came to him on the veranda and interrupted his peaceful solitude.

            “Barsad is here to see you, sir. Shall I ask him to return in the morning?”

            “No, Hisham,” Bane said, not looking away from his crocheting. “Show him in.”

            Hisham hesitated, and Bane could feel his bemused gaze upon the needlework before he retreated.

            When Melisande had first taught Bane to crochet in prison, the other inmates’ derision made it abundantly clear to him that such handiwork was considered feminine. Even though they saw the practical value of what he created—blankets for himself as well as for Talia, baby booties, hats, socks—they maintained that they would not be caught dead indulging in a woman’s hobby. Bane had absorbed their abuses at first, but once he was strong enough to physically discourage his tormentors, such mockery was then carried out mainly beyond his hearing. After Rā’s al Ghūl had rescued him, Bane maintained his craft through his years in the League. Just as Melisande had foretold when she had first tutored him in the art, the practiced movement of his fingers with the hook and yarn brought peace to him, settling him and allowing the day’s troubles to slide away. Temujin—his mentor, teacher, and closest friend in the League—had encouraged the hobby, knowing its value to his pupil’s overactive mind.

            At the thought of Temujin, Bane frowned; the Mongol’s death two weeks ago still weighed heavily on his heart. The events surrounding Temujin’s murder had led to Bane’s excommunication, but even the pain of exile could not rival his grief for his friend. He paused in his work, stared toward the shadowy bulk of the main palace where several rooms were lit from within. If Temujin were here now, no doubt he would point out how fitting it was that Bane was crocheting a mere stone’s throw from Melisande’s childhood bedroom. Once again he wished Temujin had met Melisande but, alas, the Mongol had not arrived in the pit prison until years after her passing.

             Bane did not leave his comfortable padded wicker chair on the veranda when he heard Hisham admit Barsad into the room, nor did he stir as the man’s footsteps crossed over to the veranda. When his guest halted on the threshold, Bane gave him only a glance before returning his attention to his work, purposefully allowing Barsad to see him crocheting so he could gage the man.

            “Am I interrupting?”

            Bane gestured to a nearby chair.

            “Mind if I smoke?”

            Bane grunted, which Barsad took as acquiescence, for he dug a cigarette and lighter out of his pocket.

            “Tobacco is a weakness,” Bane stated with another measuring glance.

            “Maybe so,” Barsad responded pragmatically as he lit up. “But then we all have some sort of weakness, don’t we?”

            A worthy answer, Bane thought with a noncommittal second grunt.

            Barsad forsook the chair for the veranda railing, which he leaned one elbow on in a portrait of insouciance. He had a natural ease about him, though Bane sensed that he should not mistake this for carelessness or laziness. No, it was the practice of one used to enjoying every little luxury or moment of peace that came his way, a practice acquired through combat and frequent hardship. Bane understood this all too well. And there was confidence in Barsad’s bearing that did not stretch into arrogance as it did with so many other men.

            Surprisingly Barsad did not open the conversation, leaving only the sounds of courtyard insects and bats to occupy the auditory space between the two men. Barsad took his time enjoying the cigarette, leisurely jetting smoke away from the light spilling from the room and into the darkening night; stars had begun to prick the sky over the main palace. Never had Bane met someone who seemed so unaffected when first alone in his presence…or should he say the mask’s presence?

            “So what interests you in Kashmir?” Bane asked.

            “There are rumors of an upcoming incursion by Pakistani forces across the Line of Control. Are you familiar with the LOC?”

            “Yes; Asia’s Berlin Wall, so to speak. The _de facto_ border between the Northern Area and the Jammu and Kashmir regions.”

            “Kashmiri militants are looking for fighters. It’s suspected they will be utilized in such an incursion. They know the area intimately, of course, and are suited to mountain fighting, having been born and bred in the region.”

            “Why would the Kashmiris throw their lot in with Pakistan?”

            “The LOC divides Kashmir and has forced the separation of villages and families. Equally important, it closed off the Jehlum valley route in and out of Kashmir Valley. You can imagine the ramifications to the local economy. Of course, there are other reasons as well. Every conflict has nuances and subplots. But they’re always about the same thing in the end: greed.”

            Bane nodded to himself, surprised by some of the veiled emotion behind Barsad’s words. “Where are you from?” Bane asked, finishing another stitch before letting the crochet rest in his lap.

            Barsad removed the cigarette and stared for a moment at its glowing tip. “West Virginia originally. The States. Grew up there. Left when I joined the army out of high school. Never been back.”

            “No desire?”

            “No money in West Virginia. Not much to do but dig coal.” A slight grin raised one corner of his mouth. “I’m not keen on going underground.”

            Bane’s mask hid his sardonic grin when he thought of his own early, subterranean life. Perhaps he could become a miner if things did not work out. He almost laughed at the thought.

            “Seems you have some experience in surviving underground,” Barsad probed.

            Bane’s grin died. “What has Maysam told you?”

            Barsad took a long pull on the cigarette then flicked the ash over the railing. “Only what she deemed necessary, I’m sure. She’s a cautious woman, not just for herself but for those she cares about.”

            “So what has she said?”

            The American was stone sober now. “She told me how you helped her daughter in prison. She told me how she met you, how she found you in that clinic, the shape you were in after your failed escape attempt. She said she offered you freedom, but you refused it to return to her daughter.”

            Bane stared out at the shadowy palace. “Is her daughter’s imprisonment common knowledge? I would not have guessed it so.”

            “No, not common knowledge. What happened to Melisande is not known beyond the family.”

            “Yet you are not family.”

            Barsad returned the cigarette to his lips and made a short humming sound, his eyelids flickering. “No. No, I’m not. But my duties have brought me into the family’s inner circle, and over the years Maysam has shared certain…burdens with me. Of course she hasn’t gone into great detail, but I know enough to understand the relationship she has with her husband. And she’s told me enough to understand why she wants to help you and why she wants _me_ to help you.”

            “I haven’t said I need your help.”

            Barsad stifled a wry smile and was careful to only glance at Bane. “And I haven’t said I would help you.”

            Bane considered the man’s parry, nodded to himself, thought, _Touché_.

            “But if you truly didn’t need my help,” Barsad continued, “then why did you invite me in?”

            Again his words betrayed no conceit, revealing instead staid curiosity. Barsad flicked the remains of his cigarette into the darkness below then faced Bane, leaning back against the veranda railing, arms crossed. The slight playfulness had vanished, replaced by the stolid visage of a soldier.

            “Fair enough,” Bane rumbled as he set his needlework on a small table beside him. “It has already been established that I am looking for a new path, and my options are few. Though I know nearly nothing about you, I trust Maysam’s judgment, and thus I must trust you…for now.”

            Barsad’s shallow nod underscored that this tenuous trust worked both ways. “She said you are accustomed to mountain terrain.”

            “Yes.”

            “So I’m assuming your mask doesn’t…” He searched for the appropriate word, one pointing finger waggling as if to aid his search.

            “Impede me?” Bane offered caustically.

            “Yes.”

            “It provides certain challenges, true enough, but nothing I am incapable of overcoming.”

            “Maysam said it delivers a painkilling agent.”

            “It does.”

            “And where will you find this painkiller in the mountains of Kashmir?”

            “I have several months’ supply with me.”

            “And when it runs out?”

            Slight irritation lowered Bane’s brow. “This…impediment is my own; it will not become yours.”

            Barsad brought his finger to his lips in a gesture of growing interest as he studied the mask. “Its construction, its design, seems a bit flawed. It can’t be that durable.”

            Bane allowed, “It has been replaced a couple of times after suffering some damage in the field.”

            “Hmm.”

            Barsad now drew closer, bent down so the mask was at eye level. He tilted his head this way and that to get a better look at the mask’s front and sides. Displeased with being examined like a piece of hardware, Bane would have stood up to escape the scrutiny if such an action would not expose his emotions to this stranger. Instead he delivered a pointed glare that compelled Barsad to straighten but not retreat.

            “There are stronger materials available that would make it more durable,” Barsad said. “And the mask tends to garble your voice; there are ways to amplify and clarify.”

            Bane only continued to stare at him, feeling slightly put upon by the authority in the American’s voice.

            Barsad shrugged at him as if to dismiss the irritation. “I have a friend who’s a bit of a genius when it comes to engineering and invention. If you want, I could put in a call to him. He’s in New Dehli.”

            “Why is it any concern of yours?”

            “Well, if you’re going to be coming with me, I’m someone who believes in having the best…equipment available. Wouldn’t want your mask giving out on you in the middle of nowhere. Sounds like you’ve had the resources in the past for such contingencies, but once we leave here, you and I will have little beyond the resources of our own hands, at least for a while.”

            “I haven’t decided if I’m coming with you.”

            Barsad drifted back to the railing, a small, patient smile giving a glimpse of his blunt teeth. “You and I both know you can’t stay here; you hate Saddig too much. As head of his security, I couldn’t in good conscience allow you to stay here, even if you wanted to. I’ve said as much to Maysam.”

            “You’ve resigned your position. What do you care of what happens here after you’re gone?”

            Barsad’s smile vanished. “Like you, I care about Maysam. She may not love her husband or mourn his death when it comes, but she’s tied to his fortunes. I’ve spent the last five years protecting that; I won’t see it destroyed.”

            “Why do you care so much about Maysam?”

            “For the same reason you do. She doesn’t see your mask when she looks at you, like everyone else does, does she? No, she sees beyond that. There aren’t many people with that ability, that inherent kindness, especially someone whose own life has had its share of brutality and grief. When I first came here, I was pretty desperate, like you. She saw something in me that I didn’t even see myself. And she took the time to uncover that and give me back my life.”

            “Then why are you leaving?”

            Barsad relaxed with a shrug. “Like she said, I’m not too comfortable with peace. This is the longest I’ve ever stayed in one place. I’m getting antsy. Sounds like you’re a man who can understand that.”

            Bane shifted his weight, his back protesting his lengthy stay in the chair.

            Barsad gestured to the broad, rigid Kevlar belt that encircled Bane’s waist. “I take it the brace is because of your surgery?”

            “Butchery might be a better word for it,” Bane allowed before catching himself. He stood, hiding his stiffness the best he could, and regarded Barsad for a long moment. “I shall consider your offer and have an answer for you tomorrow. When do you leave?”

            The shrug came again. “Whenever I like.”

            “Very well.”

            “Shall I phone my friend in New Dehli? We would be passing through there on our way north. And even if you decide not to come to Kashmir with me, you could stay with him for a few days. I’m sure he would love the challenge of designing a new mask for you. And in the meantime, he might be able to find you work.”

            Bane hid his surprise over Barsad’s generosity, not wanting to be so indebted to anyone, especially an American. “I’ll think about it.”

            Barsad’s tight smile and nod acknowledged Bane’s stubbornness, a stubbornness that he seemed to know no amount of persuasion could sway. “Good night then. Until tomorrow.”

            Bane listened to Barsad’s footfalls recede through the suite, followed by the door shutting behind him. His fingers twitched with sudden restlessness and agitation. All thoughts of sleep had fled, and he returned to his chair, picking up the hook and yarn. He stared at the makings of the brown scarf. Why had he begun making such a thing? He would have no need of it here, so near the desert.

            No, no need of it here, he considered, but the mountains of Kashmir were another matter.


	4. Chapter 4

            The noise of New Dehli rose to meet Bane as he stepped out onto the apartment’s balcony, some twelve stories up. He stretched and yawned behind the mask, basking in the morning sunlight, squinting. A cool morning, but one promising warmth later. He leaned on the railing, listened to the voice of the city, studying the surrounding buildings with their varied architecture. This time of day the air was more acceptable to him; like Shanghai—the scene of his final mission with the League of Shadows—New Dehli had notoriously poor air quality, something that was a challenge to his mask. Well, perhaps soon that problem would be rectified…or at least improved, for Malik had said his new mask would be ready today.

            Bane considered Malik, their Indian host. A bit nervous and fidgety, but sharp-minded. Once Malik had left the military, he had worked for the government for several years, something related to their nuclear program—his explanation had been fragmented and vague, and Bane had not pressed, though he had a feeling from Barsad’s deliberate look that his American companion knew the details. As Barsad had foretold, Malik had been fascinated by Bane’s mask and had eagerly set about designing one more efficient in function as well as durability.

            Both Malik and Barsad were still asleep when Bane had left his blankets that morning (he slept on the living room floor while Barsad snored away on the couch). Barsad had been out late the night before—Bane did not ask of his business—and Malik had been holed up in his room, diligently clattering away on his computer. Bane had remained at the apartment, content to crochet and watch television. He had to admit to a slight fascination with television, for his life had allowed for few such amenities.

            He did not always remain in the apartment, though. Since coming to New Dehli two weeks ago, he had often ventured out to explore the city. He had been here two times before while a member of the League, but his duties had kept him from enjoying the culture and the many places of note like the Red Fort, Qutb Minar, or the National Museum. Bane’s interests amused Barsad who found little appeal in such wanderings.

            Of course during his explorations, Bane and his mask were subjected to the typical looks of fear and repulsion from New Dehli’s teeming population. When he had first escaped prison, such reactions had disturbed and almost saddened him, but those emotions had quickly faded, swallowed by a growing disdain for the narrow-minded. Eventually he came to relish these expressions, drawing strength from the knowledge that he intimidated without saying a word. Rā’s al Ghūl had once told him: “You must bask in the fear of other men.” Rā’s had been the first to recognize that Bane’s mask, the very thing that deprived him of society’s acceptance, could be used as a weapon, a weapon of fear.

            Bane sank into a chair on the balcony, his stomach growling for breakfast. He ignored this, however, and closed his eyes, breathing deeply, allowing his mind to stray, and such digressions always began and ended with Talia. When he had awoken that morning, he had been dreaming about her, about their lovemaking. Such dreams were always bittersweet to him, for since leaving the League, he expected to rarely if ever see her again. After all, her powerful father had ambitious plans for her. After graduating from Le Rosey, a world-renown private school in Switzerland, she would attend Oxford University. After that, she would go to America, and there—if Rā’s al Ghūl’s plans succeeded—she would marry Gotham City’s favored son, billionaire Bruce Wayne. Once so highly placed, she would manipulate Wayne and his vast fortune to not only benefit the League but to eventually bring about the destruction of America’s most corrupt and irredeemable city.

            It was Bane’s contention of Rā’s’ nefarious matchmaking that had ultimately been the last straw in the two men’s relationship. Now that he was removed from the situation, Bane feared for Talia’s future. Of course once he had exposed her father’s plans to Talia, she had vehemently vowed to never marry Wayne or any man whom she did not love. But Bane understood Rā’s’ determination and power more than Talia ever could, and thus he was not so convinced of Talia being able to hold to her word.

            Bane had shared his concerns with Maysam who easily comprehended the discomfort of arranged marriages. But she had cautioned against putting the proverbial cart before the horse, considering how young Talia still was.

            “It has been difficult these past few years,” he had confided. “I was so accustomed to protecting her in prison that once we were free and she was with her father, I still had trouble entrusting her to someone else’s care. Truth be told, I still do. I promised Melisande that I would protect Talia. To me, that is a vow for as long as Talia lives, no matter who else is in her life. I will always worry about her.”

            “When you reach New Dehli, you must purchase a mobile phone, so I can stay in touch with you, Haris. I can keep you informed about Talia. Perhaps that will ease your concerns. I know you will not always be in a location where you have reception, but when you are, we will be able to talk.” She paused. “I will worry about you, of course, and so will Talia.” Then she smiled sadly. “And perhaps in time you will call Talia yourself.”

            He had previously told her that he thought it best if he remained distant from Talia. He feared more than anything that she would forsake her education to spite her father and join him. He did not want to mistakenly provide her with any such opportunity. If she could not find him, she could not join him.

            Bane left the balcony and headed for the bathroom to shower before his companions could awaken. He took his time, having injected himself with enough morphine to see him through his morning ablutions. Meticulously he shaved the scarred remains of his face where random patches of beard still managed to make a regular appearance, and then he did the same to his head, a usual ritual to ensure the tight fit of his mask. And he wanted his skin particularly smooth today for fitting the new mask. At the thought, his fingers twitched with a mixture of eagerness and trepidation. He was so accustomed to his current mask that he saw it as a permanent part of himself, like an arm or a leg. So the thought of something replacing it gave him pause.

            Distantly he heard the ring of a phone, paid no attention to it, figuring it was Barsad’s. But then he heard the American’s voice just outside the bathroom door.

            “Phone for you, Bane.”

            Of course that could mean only one person: Maysam. Instinctive concern hurried Bane. “I’ll be out in just a minute.”

            “Says her name is Talia.”

            Bane startled, cutting his scalp with the razor, drawing a soft curse. His shocked eyes stared back at him in the mirror above the sink.

            “You want me to tell her you’ll call back?”

            “No!” He dropped the razor into the sink and hastily reached for a towel.

            Bane jerked the door open so suddenly that Barsad took a surprised step back. Then, seeing the exposed ruin of Bane’s face, he dropped his gaze back to the cell phone in his hand. This was not the first time he had seen Bane without the mask, for he had been there when Malik had taken a lifecast of his head in preparation for fitting the mask, but the sudden, unexpected appearance now took him unaware, and he seemed determined not to make Bane feel uncomfortable or self-conscious.

            Taking the phone, Bane—dressed only in sweatpants—headed for the balcony as he spoke. “Talia?” A slight delay, a lag of excruciating length in which he repeated her name with even more urgency.

            “Bane? Bane, is that you?”

            “Yes. Can you hear me?”

            “Yes; yes, that’s better. Where are you?”

            He closed the sliding glass door behind him, his hands trembling. “I’m in India. Where are you?”

            “At school.”

            Bane glanced at the rising sun. “But it’s early there. You should be asleep.”

            “I wanted to call you before I got up for class so we have time to talk.”

            He paced back and forth. “Did your grandmother give you my number?” He shook his head—what a stupid question; of course Maysam did.

            “Yes. She didn’t want to; she said you didn’t want me to know how to find you.” Even through this connection, hurt made its way through her words.

            “I’m sorry, Talia; I just want to make sure you stay in school.”

            “I know; that’s what _Jiddah_ said. But that’s what Papa wants, too, and I’m so angry with him that I—”

            “ _Habibati_ ,” Bane said in as calming a voice as he could muster, “you don’t have to stay in school for the sake of your father. Do it for yourself; do it for me…and your mother.”

            “Will you come visit? I miss you so much.”

            He closed his eyes against the pain. “I miss you, too. And I hope to see you again, but for now we are each where we need to be. Do you understand?”

            Bane heard her slight huff on the end of the line, then a pause before she asked, “Where in India are you?”

            “Your grandmother didn’t tell you?” he tested.

            “No. She said you told her not to.”

            Bane nodded to himself, pleased to have his belief in Maysam validated. “It doesn’t matter where I am; I won’t be here much longer. I am waiting on a new mask, which I should receive today, then I will be leaving.”

            “A new mask? Did something happen to the old one? Are you all right?”

            “Yes, I'm fine. This one is a new design.”

            “You must send me pictures.”

            “When I can.”

            “ _Jiddah_ said you left with one of her men. What’s he like? Is he the man who answered your phone?”

            “Yes.” Bane glanced over his shoulder into the apartment where Barsad was sitting up on the couch, his blankets shoved aside, and a cup of coffee now in his hands. He had been watching Bane and did not try to hide the fact by looking away; instead he lifted his coffee as if in tribute and gave a wry, knowing smile. Bane stiffened slightly when he realized what the man had assumed about the female caller. “So far, he is acceptable. Time will tell. But your grandmother thinks highly of him. She seems to believe we will work well together.”

            A hint of Talia’s usual impishness could be heard in her light laugh. “Did she warn him that you don’t play well with others?”

            The return of her good humor instantly led his thoughts astray, and he felt a stirring in his loins. “I play well enough,” he said in a lower, heavier voice. “Or did you find me lacking on our last night?” He grinned a grin that he knew would be ghastly should anyone behold it.

            “Bane!” Talia said with mock astonishment then laughed softly, no doubt not wanting to awaken her roommate. “Of course not. You could never be lacking…in anything. And now that I’ve been with a _man_ , I find the _boys_ here uninteresting, unappealing. I will be so bored without you.”

            “Talia,” Bane scolded, though with little true effort, for on the point of selfish pleasure, he would be forever satisfied knowing she might never let another of Le Rosey’s pampered rich boys touch her. “You must at least play the part there. Those boys will one day be men of wealth, and we or your father may have need of them. I know you well enough to know you can be at least a good actress.”

            “Father,” she scoffed, her tone instantly sour again. “I won’t be doing him any favors. You should have seen his face when I told him we had sex.”

            Bane nearly choked. “You what?”

            “I told him. Of course I did. The day you left. I was crying after I found you had left without saying good-bye.”

            “Talia, I had to—”

            “I know, _habibi_. I understood. But that didn’t make it any easier. So when Papa found me crying, he said more hateful things about you; called you a monster again. So I told him. And I told him that _he_ was the monster and that you have more love inside you than he ever could, especially for me. And that you had shown me as much when I had gone into your room the night before. Serves him right. Remember when we first came to the League, when I was younger, and he always rebuked me when I would snuggle in bed with you? He never really understood, even though he knew we had shared a bed since Mama’s death. How could he not understand?”

            “Talia.” Bane hesitated, cleared his throat, her revelation to her father taking his response in several conflicting directions. “We talked about this before I left, about you not losing your father’s favor. I understand you’re angry with him, and—trust me—I appreciate your defense of me. But before you speak in anger with him again, you must caution yourself. Like it or not, he is your guardian, both physically and financially.”

            “I was just fine with you as my guardian.”

            “Things are different now; it’s not just you and me, and we aren’t in prison. I can’t be those things for you any longer.”

            “Don’t say that, _habibi_.”

            “It’s the truth.”

            “It may be, but I hate hearing you say it.”

            Bane frowned. “You should be sleeping instead of talking to me. You will fall asleep in class later.”

            “I want to hear what you’ve been doing since you left. Where are you going after you get your mask?”

            “I can’t tell you.”

            “Will you at least promise to call me?”

            “I won’t be able to. It’s a remote location.”

            She groaned slightly. “If you don’t tell me, I shall worry even more. What if something happens to you and you need help? How would I find you?”

            “There will be no need. However, if you have an emergency, you must contact your grandmother and let her know. She will find a way to reach me. But, Talia, mind what I’ve said—an _emergency_ ; something your father isn’t able to help you with. Understand? I will be far from you.”

            Sadness quieted her; he could feel it as if she were standing here beside him, as he wished she were. “I understand,” she murmured at last.

            “Good. Now you should hang up and try to get some sleep before you have to get up for class.”

            “I don’t want to hang up. Can’t we keep talking?”

            “No, _habibati_. You must focus on school, not me.”

            “I don’t want to,” she mumbled as if into her pillow. He imagined her wild hair splayed around her. “We should be together.”

            “There is nothing I want more, little mouse. But we can’t cry over spilt milk, as they say. Now say good-bye.”

            “No.”

            “Say it.”

            She gave a small whimper.

            “Then I will say it.”

            “No.”

            Bane sighed to himself. “Good-bye, _habibati_.” He frowned down at the street below. “Always know that I love you, that I always will.”

            With a slight tremble in her voice, she responded, “I love you, too.” Then in a near whisper, “Good-bye.”

            Bane remained on the balcony for some time after ending the call, staring out over the city, trying to settle his emotions. Perhaps he should not have taken the call but instead avoid all contact with Talia as he had planned. _Weak_ , he berated himself, _you are weak_. And worse yet, Barsad had heard her voice. Surely Maysam had never told the American about her granddaughter, and if she had, no doubt Barsad would have told him as much. He remembered Barsad’s knowing look and small smile minutes ago. Mere conjecture on the American’s part, of course; what else could it be if Maysam had not revealed Talia’s existence?

            For a moment Bane closed his eyes, tried to slow the beat of his heart, stirred so by the conversation. And in that private darkness he saw her; she came to him as she had come to him that last night—a mysterious shape, small and gliding, dressed only in a short kimono. As he remembered the exquisite fabric beneath his touch and the soft warmth of her flesh, his fingers twitched, that restless tic of his, always so prevalent, something he had to consciously suppress around others, for it was the only thing besides his eyes that could give away the turmoil within. Another weakness.

            So Talia had told Rā’s about them. Bane could only imagine the man’s outrage. After all, he was fifteen years older than Talia, and in Rā’s’ eyes his daughter was still a child. But even worse than that to Rā’s would be Bane’s unworthiness. Bane was no Bruce Wayne. Rā’s viewed Bane as nothing more than a soldier in his covert army. A pawn in a game of international chess, and Talia the queen. Although Rā’s held a certain gratefulness for Bane’s protection of Melisande and Talia in prison, he could never get beyond the fact that Bane’s mere presence reminded him of his own failings when it came to his family; he would forever blame himself for Melisande’s imprisonment and nightmarish death.

            Bane cursed these memories, low and harsh behind the mask, then returned inside. There was Barsad still on the couch, leisurely enjoying his coffee. After the coffee would come the usual morning cigarette. Such a vile habit, and one that irritated Bane through his mask. Barsad did not smoke excessively, true enough—usually only one cigarette after each meal—but Bane hoped he could break him of the habit altogether or that their time in the remote reaches of Kashmir would see an end to his supply.

            As if reading Bane’s mind, Barsad tapped the pack of cigarettes on the coffee table before him. “Swore off the things when I started to work for Siddig. I itch for them when I’m bored, though. Hopefully after you get your mask today, we can be on our way, yes?”

            Still distracted in his thoughts, Bane grunted and nodded before stepping into the kitchen.

            “Everything all right with the girl?” Barsad called leadingly.

            Bane stared at the phone still in his hand. He tried to gage Barsad’s question without being able to see the man. It was not like the American to openly pry; Bane appreciated that about him, especially this early in their relationship. So what was in his voice? Sarcasm? Concern? Concern, Bane figured. After all, going into combat with another man, you wanted to be assured that your mate was focused upon the task at hand.

            “Yes,” Bane called at last, his tone purposefully apathetic. He left it at that and reached to pour a cup of coffee. He would allow himself this small comfort before he had to don his mask once again. After all, he needed it.


	5. Chapter 5

            Bane’s fingers twitched as Malik tantalizingly held up the new mask. Sunlight flashed against the smooth indigo surface of the side moldings as he turned it this way and that, proudly pointing and explaining the virtues of the design.

            “Though it’s more substantial than your older mask,” Malik said, handing it to Bane at last, “the titanium makes it lighter…and stronger. The material of the headpiece as well as there at the rear is much more breathable than the leather of your old mask, and it will better conform to the shape of your head, similar to a wetsuit. The two canisters are more streamlined as well and are capable of containing a twenty-four-hour supply of your crystals. And if you look inside the mouthpiece, you will see a tiny microphone and microchip that will not only amplify your voice but will clarify some of the…distortion created by your injuries.”

            “I like the color,” Barsad said with trenchant wit, grinning from where he stood leaning on the balcony’s railing. Bane gave him a sharp glance, then realized Barsad was simply bullshitting him as was his wont. Early on in their fledgling relationship, Bane had discovered Barsad had a dry sense of humor. The American seemed to enjoy Bane’s oft bemused looks in response to something said in jest. Sometimes the teasing reminded Bane of his former relationship with Temujin. The Mongol had always pushed the envelope, unafraid of tweaking his student where others would not dare. “You are too serious for your own good, my young bull,” Temujin had often scolded.

            This new mask was indeed more formidable, more functional, and—as he had requested—a bit intimidating to look upon. Like the previous mask, the drug was administered through tubing that connected two rear canisters with the front of the mask—two lines running on either side of the headpiece that bisected his shaved skull and two others, one a side, running along the bottom of the mask. The front of the mask put Bane in mind of a large spider, for eight silver, jointed tubes distributing the drug fed from top and bottom—four apiece—into the center of the mouthpiece like an arachnid’s legs. Two longer tubes on either side also distributed the drug from the headpiece feeds, while on either side of his chin shorter titanium fixtures flooded the mask from below.

            “With the increase in the number of connections,” Malik continued, touching each of the silver pieces at the front of the mask, “you will have an increase in the flow of the drug. It will utilize the crystals much more efficiently.” He paused and frowned. “I’m afraid I could not improve your ability to hear through the mask, though. To improve upon that would have compromised the strength of the side pieces, and I knew that was more important to you.”

            Bane nodded.

            “Having the lifecast to work with should have greatly increased the efficiency of the seals,” Malik said. “I could make exact calculations. You will, of course, find it tight, much tighter in some respects because of that.”

            Bane scowled at the memory of the lifecast—the lengthy time spent in the chair, sitting as immobile as he possibly could as Malik applied the material, conforming it exactly to every nuance of his head. A claustrophobic feeling, reminding Bane of the very first time he had donned a mask, the panic that had ensued, the fears that he could neither live with or without the cursed thing. How differently he viewed the mask now. A part of him. A frightful weapon. Something that set him apart from any other human being. That, added to his formidable height and weight, made him something to be reckoned with physically. Even his gait had conformed to this persona—lumbering, heavy, made so by his bulk as well as by the extensive injuries he had suffered to his back from his fall in the prison shaft.

            Bane handed the mask to Malik and proceeded to remove the old apparatus. As usual, Malik did not flinch at the heinous ruin of Bane’s face, nor did Barsad who watched closely as the inventor carefully fitted the new mask. As soon as it was in place, Malik activated the canisters, and the mask breathed a gentle sigh as the drug began to circulate. Bane inhaled deeply, too deeply; he began to choke and cough.

            “Breathe normally,” Malik admonished. “As I said, this mask delivers more of the drug than the other, so you can breathe more easily and still achieve the same results.”

            Malik went over the mask thoroughly to make sure it clutched Bane’s head completely. It was indeed vice-like, more so than the previous. He could already feel a headache coming on.

            “The material on the underside, against your cheeks and alongside your head will not break down from perspiration.” Malik glanced at Barsad. “Though it sounds like where you are going perspiration won’t be a concern anyway. Of course you must still clean and disinfect it regularly. Now speak so we can test the microphone.”

            His words did indeed sound clearer and stronger, so strong in fact that he had to modulate his volume, having become so accustomed to speaking loudly in order to be heard through the old mask. He looked to Barsad for his reaction. The American raised his eyebrows in surprise and nodded favorably.

            “Definite improvement,” Barsad said. “No more Mr. Mumbles.” His deadpan expression gave way to a quick grin.

            Bane scowled slightly, caught Malik’s quick effort to douse his own amusement. Thinking of his nemesis in the League of Shadows—a man named Damien Chase—Bane grumbled, “Are all Americans such cheeky bastards?”

            Barsad only chuckled.

            “Give your head a vigorous shake, my friend,” Malik directed. “Let us make sure there is no slippage.”

            Bane could not see how the mask would move a hair’s breadth, considering how tightly it clung to him, like some metallic leech. But he tested it thoroughly and was satisfied. In fact, he felt an immediate surge of confidence.

            “It will withstand extremes of both heat and cold with no significant expansion or contraction,” Malik assured.

            “But will it withstand hand to hand combat?” Bane asked.

            “That was one of your stipulations, was it not?” Malik chided.

            Unconvinced, Bane turned to Barsad. “Hit me.”

            Now all frivolity vanished from Barsad, and he straightened from the railing. “Hit you? And break my hand on that thing?”

            “Put gloves on.”

            Barsad eyed him. “And who’s to say you won’t rip my arms out of their sockets once I piss you off?”

            “You’ll piss me off sooner if you don’t hit me.”

            Barsad exchanged an uneasy glance with Malik who was obviously not about to offer to take Barsad’s place.

            “Let us go inside where there’s more room,” Bane invited, leading the way. The others, however, he found anchored still to the balcony when he turned around. “Come on then. The sooner we test this thing, the sooner we can leave.”

            Reluctant, Barsad shuffled inside, followed by Malik, who lingered slightly behind the American as if to hide.

            “Tape your knuckles if you must, but let’s get on with it,” Bane growled.

            Seeing that Bane would not relent, Barsad swallowed and shrugged, some of his typical looseness returning. “As you wish. Mal, you got any tape?”

            Malik sidled past him and went to the bathroom, returning shortly with white bandaging tape and scissors. As Malik wrapped Barsad’s hands, Barsad sardonically asked, “Now you’ll step in if it gets out of hand, right?” Then he grinned at Malik’s blank look.

            Once wrapped, Barsad went to his pack to retrieve his cold weather gloves. All the while Bane stood in the middle of the living room, waiting.

            When he came to stand in front of Bane, Barsad asked, “Are you sure about this?”

            “Yes. Best to test it now instead of finding out it’s lacking in the field. Don’t you agree?”

            “Sure, but I’d rather it was some Indian _jawan_ punching you than me.”

            Revealing his own capacity for wit, Bane twitched a questioning eyebrow at Malik who instantly raised his hands and backed away from the two. “I bust these hands on you, who is going to repair your mask if need be?”

            “So that leaves you, Barsad.” Bane squared his shoulders, feet planted solidly. “And don’t hold back. Show me what you’ve got.”

            Barsad was not a big man—he stood only five feet ten—but he was built solidly, lean and muscular. Even during their two weeks of leisure here, he ran daily and worked out. Now he faced Bane, suddenly serious, the paleness of his blue eyes deepening with concentration as he brought his guard up.

            A lightning fast right jab took Bane by surprise, struck the mask straight on, knocking him a half step backward before he caught himself. The blow stung Bane slightly and summoned a hint of moisture to his eyes. Instinctively his hands balled into fists, and he started to raise his guard, a scowl wrinkling his brow beneath the headpiece. Barsad hesitated until Bane caught himself and lowered his hands back to his sides.

            “Again,” Bane’s amplified voice echoed in the room.

            Barsad frowned, gathering himself. Two more jabs, right then left. Bane absorbed them, did not move or flinch, forced his mind to override the discomfort as well as his instinct to strike back.

            “Harder. From the side,” Bane said methodically.

            A left hook, powerful enough to snap Bane’s head to the right, followed by an upper cut, the gloves making a dull sound against the mask. Stinging, nothing more. Bane detected no shifting in the mask’s fit.

            Barsad hesitated hopefully. “Enough?”

            Bane grunted. “Yes, I think that is sufficient.”

            Barsad stepped back to allow Malik to check the mask.

            The Indian smiled with broad satisfaction. “Excellent. It hasn’t moved at all. It would seem that it will take a superhero to disturb it.”

            “A superhero?” Bane said.

            “Yeah,” Barsad said, removing his gloves. “You know, like in comic books. Superman and all that.”

            “There was a definite lack of comic books in prison,” Bane said wryly. “While you were wasting time reading such things during your American childhood, I was reading Dickens and Shakespeare.”

            Barsad gave him a cocked smile as he unwound the tape from his left hand. “Is that so? Well, no wonder you’re so full of laughs.”

            Malik could not contain his bark of laughter before realizing how dangerously close he was to Bane should the joke not be taken in the spirit intended. But Bane allowed himself to absorb Barsad’s jab, knowing that he was, in truth, too often overly serious. Talia, like Temujin, had teased him similarly and with regularity, and he had certainly not held it against either of them. In fact, he appreciated the outside sources of balance. Even in prison he had benefitted from it at the hands of two inmates whom he called friends. The only two. Hans and Abrams. He often wondered what had become of them after they had escaped with him. Now without someone like them or Temujin, Bane realized that perhaps in Barsad he had stumbled upon someone with their value. After all, any man who would unflinchingly punch him in the face had some serious stones.


	6. Chapter 6

            In frustration, Bane tore every single item out of his pack. When he did not find what he was looking for there, he proceeded to rip the bedding from his cot, growling in frustration. The other men who shared the large tent with him cast curious glances his way, but no one dared ask him what he was so feverishly about. Nor did they venture away from their card games or the warm stove in the center of the tent.

            A blast of cold evening air charged into the shelter when the door opened to admit Barsad. Bane only glanced at him, saw in that minuscule moment the fatigue in the American’s eyes, the frost of exhalation on his mustache and beard which had grown thicker since coming to the mountains of Kashmir. Barsad trudged over to his cot next to Bane’s and freed himself of his pack and rifle then sat heavily upon his bed, still breathing hard, waiting to catch his breath before he spoke.

            “What’s wrong, Bane?”

            “It’s missing. I can’t find it anywhere. I had it this morning.”

            “What?”

            “Talia’s picture.”

            “Did you check under your cot? Maybe you dropped it.”

            “I’ve looked everywhere in here. It’s gone.”

            Barsad, too tired to offer any assistance, continued to watch the frantic search, his hands hanging loose over his knees. “Check your pockets.”

            “I have,” Bane said irascibly. “Of course I have.”

            Barsad held up his hands in a defensive apology then removed his boots and lay back on his cot with a heavy sigh. “It’ll turn up.”

            Bane halted his search, sat staring at the spilled contents of his pack on the cot. “Someone took it.”

            Barsad stifled a small laugh. “No one would be stupid enough to do that.”

            “Well, it didn’t just grow legs and walk away,” Bane snapped. Then he caught himself, knew he had no right to take this out on Barsad. So he sat quietly for a moment then rechecked every interior inch of the pack before resignedly returning the contents. Once finished, he looked at Barsad who now lay with his eyes shut, but the American was not asleep. “You’re late getting back.”

            “That bastard wanted to see if we would freeze to death.”

            Bane knew he was referring to Havildar Nutkani…or Nutcase, as Barsad called him. A particularly surly Pakistani who took great delight in tormenting the men under him.

            “He knows his wife is back home fucking his neighbor,” Barsad had joked early on. “So he takes it out on us, the greasy cunt.”

            Bane had been hesitant to join the Northern Light Infantry, a formidable paramilitary force that operated in conjunction with the Pakistani regular army. He would have preferred joining the Kashmiri and Afghani mercenaries that operated on the fringes of Operation Badr. The NLI was too much like regular army for Bane’s comfort. But Barsad had been persuaded by a friend of his, a friend who was now their company commander. Since then, they had been humping up and down the hills and mountains bordering the Indian national highway, keeping an eye out for the return of Indian forces to the outposts on their side of the Line of Control now that the worst of winter was over. Rumor had it the militants and the NLI would soon push beyond the LOC and occupy Indian territory.

            Bane stared at his pack, trying to think how he could have misplaced Talia’s picture. Had he perhaps tucked it in a pocket when he had left their tent that morning and then somehow it had slipped out? No, he would not have taken it from his pack; he kept it there always, carefully preserved in a small zipped pocket when he was not looking at it.

            “Are you ever going to tell me who she is?” Barsad’s groggy voice cut through Bane’s aggravation.

            Bane continued to glower at the pack, Talia’s face in his mind’s eye. “Her identity is no concern of yours.”

            Barsad grunted, unruffled by Bane’s continued evasion. “Didn’t say it was. Just curious is all. Something to talk about. She obviously means a lot to you.”

            “She does.” Bane got to his feet, shrugging into his coat.

            “Maybe it’s really Melisande,” Barsad said, crooking one arm between his head and pillow. “Maybe she’s not dead after all, but you and Maysam need Saddig to believe it.”

            Bane halted at the foot of Barsad’s cot, scowled at him. “If that’s really what you believe, then you are mistaken.” With that, he stalked from the warm tent.

            A sharp wind whistled over the camp, and Bane turned up the collar of his coat, shrugged himself deeper into its protection. The battalion’s walled tents stretched away from him on either side, many of them already dark, others alight with fire and lanterns from within. Low voices murmured, the words undiscernible between the rush of the wind and the muffling effect Bane’s mask had upon his hearing. The camp was located at the base of a small mountain, but even the lower altitude could not save them from the bite of late winter. He dug a black knit cap from his pocket and pulled it on, covering the exposed skin of his shaved head. His boots crunched against the uneven, loose dirt beneath him; all of the wiry vegetation had been trampled weeks ago when troops had first moved into this area.

            Bane tramped toward the sentry line at the edge of camp. There he halted in the lee of one of the tents and hunkered down to stare off into the moonless night.

            _Damn you, Barsad_.

            Bane had been distraught enough by the disappearance of Talia’s photo; the last thing he had needed on top of that was to be reminded of Melisande’s death. He grumbled behind his mask, his breath puffing through the mouthpiece in gray clouds. Lifting his eyes to the first wink of stars in the crisp black sky, he remembered a night long, long ago in prison. He had secreted Melisande from her cell out to the shaft with him so she could look up and see the distant constellations. They had sat there together, alone and close, huddled beneath his blanket to combat the damp chill of the endless stone surrounding them. Even after all this time, he swore he could still smell her scent, believed he could feel her light kiss against his cheek from when she had thanked him for bringing her into the shaft, allowing her a brief taste of the freedom the male inmates enjoyed at will while she remained safe from their reach in her cell. That had been the first time Melisande had asked Bane if he would take care of her child once Talia was born, in the event of something happening to her. Terrified over such a daunting prospect, Bane had cut short their time in the shaft and avoided Melisande for the better part of the following day.

            But, of course, he could not stay angry with her and apologized for his behavior, offering to take her into the shaft again that night. A foolish risk to tempt fate two nights in a row, for on that second night, another prisoner had discovered them and attacked Melisande. Only by their combined efforts did they escape with nothing more than scrapes and bruises. But that had been the last time Melisande had dared leave her cell.

            Did Barsad actually believe that the picture carried in Bane’s pack was Melisande and that was why it was never shown to him? Or had the American only been fishing for answers? There had been times since leaving Rajasthan—quiet moments of companionship—when Bane had considered sharing Talia’s picture with Barsad, but his age-old paranoid protectiveness always reared its horned head. Of course he could lie about the origin of the girl in the picture, but Bane had quickly learned Barsad was highly intuitive, especially for a man, and one look at Talia’s picture would surely betray her lineage, for she reflected traits of her grandmother and mother, and Bane knew Barsad had seen many pictures of Melisande. He could not take the chance that Barsad might reveal Talia’s existence to Saddig, purposefully or otherwise.

            Bane closed his eyes, breathed in the clear mountain air, thought of the monastery high in the Himalayas to the east in Bhutan, his former home. A place of wonderful solitude. He had had friends there, good men with whom he had served. He thought of Akar, a young Bhutanese servant, whom he had befriended when he had first arrived at the monastery from prison. Like Bane, Akar lived with both emotional and physical scars suffered in defense of a loved one. The boy’s facial deformities, caused by a wolf attack, made it easy for him to empathize with Bane’s plight. Before leaving the monastery for the last time, Bane had tasked Akar with watching over Talia when she visited the monastery on school breaks, something the young man would not mind in the least, for he had fallen in love with Talia from the moment he had met her. Talia loved Akar, too, but unfortunately not in the way Akar desired.

            Thinking of their many nights together, sitting in front of a roaring fire in the common room, reading aloud to one another or playing chess, backgammon, or cribbage, Bane frowned at the tug of homesickness and isolation. He knew he would never again belong anywhere. He had nothing and no one. The League had been his family. Even though Rā’s al Ghūl had excommunicated him and thus stripped him of everything dear in life, Bane could not hate him, for he had admired most everything about the man who had saved him not only from prison but from death itself. He had looked upon Rā’s as a father figure, especially after his birth father had rejected him.

            Rā’s had been there that day in Riyadh when Bane had met Edmund Dorrance. Though his father had certainly not been hostile—until that day he had been ignorant of Bane’s existence—the meeting had been uncomfortable and awkward. Dorrance had been deceived by his own father who had staged the death of Bane’s mother to end his son’s relationship with a woman deemed unworthy and an obstacle to Edmund Dorrance’s diplomatic future. Believing the love of his life gone forever, Bane’s father had married the woman whom Thomas Dorrance had chosen for him, the daughter of a wealthy sheikh. And he had still been married to her, their children grown, when Bane had met him. Understandably Bane’s father did not wish to cause his family any injury or scandal by revealing his disfigured, ex-prison-inmate offspring. Understandable, yes, but no less hurtful to Bane who hid his feelings on the matter from everyone but Talia. He smiled when he remembered her coming to his room the night after his return from Saudi Arabia, only ten years old then but so perceptive for a child. She had snuggled in bed with him, cozy beneath her mother’s blanket, and begged him to tell her about his father.

            Opening his eyes now to the Pakistani night, Bane listened to the tread of a nearby sentry, saw the shadow of the man as he drifted past. Standing to ease his back’s stiffness, Bane leaned against the corner support of the tent behind him, wrapping his arms about him for warmth, remembered Melisande’s blanket. She had brought it into the pit prison with her, a gift from Rā’s al Ghūl—or Henri Ducard, as he was known then—from his many travels. Though stolen and recovered twice, the blanket had endured with Melisande and then with Bane and Talia after her death, eventually carried out of the prison by Bane. He had managed to retain it throughout his years with the League, though he sensed a subtle, possessive resentment from Rā’s. And in the end, Rā’s demanded that the blanket remain behind when Bane left the monastery. For Talia’s sake, Bane had relented, for the blanket was all she had left of her mother.

            Bane’s stare grew as cold and hard as the late February night. What had become of Talia’s picture? Someone must have taken it, but why? He had no enemies among the company. In fact, the men respected, if not feared, him. Since joining their ranks he had fought men from other companies, those foolish enough to take him on in one of the many boxing matches that sprang up from time to time out of boredom and pent-up energy. He had quickly become the battalion’s champion. And as Bane’s friend, Barsad had also reaped the benefits such a reputation had earned, although Barsad in his own right was revered for his marksmanship; some of the men called him Deadshot.

            As the chill tried to work its way to his bones, Bane finally left his spot and trudged back down the company street toward his tent, still bemoaning the loss of the photograph. The thought of some other man possessing it curdled his blood and drew a low growl from him, his fingers twitching. He knew the filth that would trip through the thief’s mind at the sight of such unblemished beauty. Yet, as abhorrent as that thought was, what Bane feared even more was forgetting what Talia looked like if deprived of her image for an undeterminable length of time. All too well, he recalled how time had tried to erase his mother’s image from his memories following her death, for he had lacked even a photograph of her to fend off the nightmarish images of daily life in the pit prison. And though his rational side assured him that he could never forget Talia’s face, his emotional side fretted just the same. What was it Barsad had said back in Rajasthan? Everyone had a weakness. Bane had never considered such a flaw when it came to himself. Yet now he knew it was indeed true.

            Talia was his weakness.


	7. Chapter 7

            The realization came to Bane overnight. When he awoke, he knew his subconscious had been turning the question of the missing photograph over and over while he slept, a familiar process whenever something troubled him, and now the answer lay before him, as clear as the cerulean morning sky. But as he and Barsad headed to the mess tent, he kept the revelation to himself.

            Bane did not relish removing his mask in front of others, for he was loath to put such vulnerabilities on display, yet he always ate with the men of his unit; he refused to hide. If they were unable to stomach the sight of his mutilated face, that was their misfortune. Such aversions on the part of others were mere weaknesses to him, and he had noted early on to whom such delicate stomachs belonged; he shared little fellowship with them, these men whom he knew would not have his back, nor anyone else’s, when the bullets began to fly.

            The mess tent was welcoming, filled with the heat of so many bodies as well as the warmth emanating from the stainless steel steam tables from which the cook staff ladled out what passed for breakfast. Barsad went to get in the chow line, but Bane peeled away, his eyes zeroing in on a table down to his right. Though Barsad refrained from inquiring of his deviation from the norm, Bane knew his companion watched to see where he was going.

            When Bane reached the table, he stood behind the men sitting on the bench in front of him, their backs to him. Across the table Havildar Nutkani was so busy shoveling in his breakfast that he failed to immediately notice Bane. The others nearby, none of whom were conversing with Nutkani, instantly lifted their focus to Bane. His dark expression affected them instantly, and one man who had nearly been done eating smoothly picked up his tray and slipped away, opening a space for Bane. As Bane settled on the bench, the wood protested his weight, his movement at last catching Nutkani’s attention. A scowl instantly covered the Pakistani’s sharp, narrow features.

            “Since when do you eat away from your American friend?” Nutkani asked, his precisely trimmed mustache slanting with sarcasm.

            “Does it look like I’m eating?” Bane growled, lifting his hands slightly from where they rested on the table.

            Sudden concern twitched Nutkani’s cheek, and he glanced in search of Barsad, as if hoping the American would call Bane away. Meanwhile the men on either side of Bane hurried to finish, no doubt sensing the emergent danger.

            “You took something of mine,” Bane measured out the words, never blinking.

            “Took something? What are you talking about?”

            “You know.”

            Nutkani noticed the curious attention of the others at the table as well as those elsewhere in the tent. He seemed to draw sudden confidence in the knowledge that he was surrounded by so many witnesses. A slyness replaced his unease, and a smile slipped across his greasy mouth. Setting aside his fork, he dipped one hand inside his breast pocket.

            “You must mean this.” Nutkani held up Talia’s snapshot between his thumb and forefinger, the smile taking on a cunning gleam.

            With the blurred speed of a striking cobra, Bane snatched the photo from Nutkani with his left hand while his right slammed the noncom’s face into his breakfast. Several exclamations went up, and those closest to Bane leapt to their feet, startled. As Nutkani swore and lifted his head, blood from his nose mingled with his eggs. Bane stood, wiped Talia’s picture carefully against his jacket to remove any of Nutkani’s filth before he slipped it into his breast pocket. Barsad was rushing toward him as all around the brief quiet of shock quickly filled with murmurings and even some laughter. Fingers pointed, more heads turned.

            Nutkani pawed his breakfast from his eyes, reached for his napkin to staunch the flow of blood as he sputtered, “I’ll have you brought up on charges for this, Bane.”

            “You do that,” Bane rumbled, “and we’ll see how the Captain feels about a noncom coming into my tent and into my personal effects.”

            “It wasn’t me who took your damn picture. I just ended up with it.”

            Bane’s left eyebrow twitched. “Of course you would have someone else take the risk, wouldn’t you?”

            He turned away from Nutkani and started toward the chow line, all eyes still upon him, some of the men grinning, others looking amazed but not unhappy. Barsad, however, was the exception.

            “What the hell did you do that for?” Barsad demanded, his gaze darting to Nutkani who was now shouting after Bane, berating him in Urdu.

            Bane patted his pocket. “Bastard had Talia’s picture.”

            “How the fuck did you know that?”

            Bane grunted. “Who else in the company would be that stupid?” He continued past Barsad without breaking stride.

            “Hmm,” he heard Barsad utter with sudden thoughtfulness. “Never thought of it that way.” He followed Bane back to the chow line. “But you’re still in for a shitstorm.”

            Nutkani’s Urdu threats continued as he left his unfinished meal and stormed from the tent, surely heading for the commanding officer’s tent.

            One of the men serving the food grinned at Bane. “Pulling the tiger’s tail a bit early in the day, aren’t you, Bane?”

            Bane only glanced at him, held out his plate for the slop that was dropped upon it, moved down the line. But he heard the talk all around him. Bored men who took great pleasure in the pain and humiliation of a noncom few if any liked.

            In a low voice from next to him, Barsad said, “Nutcase won’t let this go, you know.”

            “He will.”

            “I don’t think so, especially since this was in front of the whole company. You’ve shamed him.”

            “Don’t worry about it.”

            Barsad gave a quiet snort. “Remember I’m the one who vouched for you when we joined this outfit.”

            “I remember.”

            The coldness of these two words successfully silenced Barsad, and they went to their customary table where they were met with grins and jokes about what Bane had done to Nutkani. Bane, however, did not take part in the mirth, especially since he had to remove his mask just then to eat. As usual, the others at the table discreetly averted their eyes, turning the conversation away from him so he would felt no obligation to speak.

            By the time Barsad and Bane left the mess tent, Naik Khawaja met them just outside the door.

            “The CO wants to see you, Bane. Right away.”

            “Whud I tell you?” Barsad said with a sigh of resignation. “I’ll go with you.”

            “No,” Bane said, his hard tone leaving no room for debate, and he left Barsad in his wake, followed Khawaja down the company street.

            He found his company commander, Captain Haydar Ahmedani, in the CO’s spacious tent, the colonel himself seated behind a desk, looking particularly displeased, as if he had yet to have his morning coffee. Standing in front of the desk but to one side was Nutkani, his perfectly groomed mustache now devoid of eggs, all blood wiped away, his murky-brown eyes shimmering in anticipation of Bane’s upbraiding.

            Bane kept his gaze forward, refused to acknowledge Nutkani’s presence as he came loosely, almost recalcitrantly to attention.

            The CO glanced between the noncom and Bane, scowling. “Havildar Nutkani has accused you of assault, Bane. A serious offense, of course, as you must surely know.”

            “Serious indeed,” Bane said without emotion. “And such a serious accusation would require proof, witnesses…sir.”

            Nutkani coughed a sardonic laugh. “Witnesses? The whole company saw what you did.”

            “I did nothing, sir,” Bane said to the colonel. “The Havildar’s accusations are false and based in prejudice.”

            The colonel considered Bane with only mild skepticism; he was not fond of Nutkani either. Bane knew it was a calculated gamble on his part to deny what so many had so clearly observed, but he was banking not only on the company’s collective hatred of Nutkani but on their fearful reluctance to incur the wrath of the Masked Man.

            “False?” Nutkani sneered. “Are you mad? You attacked me in front of everyone, unprovoked.”

            “Until I get to the bottom of this, Bane,” the colonel said as if Nutkani had not spoken, “you are relieved of your duties.”

            “Very well, sir.”

            “You are dismissed.”

            Ahmedani followed Bane from the tent, stepped close to his side once outside to say, “I stuck my neck out for you and Barsad to get you into this outfit, Bane. I don’t appreciate this. What the hell were you thinking?”

            Careful not to incriminate himself, Bane replied, “Did you know Nutkani was in possession of a personal item of mine?”

            “Did you see him with this…item?”

            “Yes. I…retrieved it from him.”

            Ahmedani grunted dubiously. “ _Retrieved_ indeed.” A smile almost conquered the officer’s serious expression, but he was able to stifle it at the last moment. “Well, whatever truly happened you will have to answer for it if you are proven guilty.”

            They reached Bane’s tent where they paused outside.

            “I’m not so sure the NLI is the place for you,” the captain said. “Though Barsad did not tell me much about your past, I think it’s safe to assume you are more accustomed to leading than being led. Am I correct?”

            “Yes, sir.”

            Ahmedani nodded gravely. “Well, I have no doubts you are an effective soldier, so let’s wait and see what happens with our friend Nutkani. Perhaps things will sort themselves out without too much trouble.” He offered a tight, troubled smile before leaving Bane.

            Entering the tent, Bane was greeted with congratulatory whistles, catcalls, and laughter from the men who had already returned from the mess tent. But he ignored their amusement over Nutkani’s misfortunes and sat upon his cot, reaching for his pack. He slipped Talia’s photo from his pocket, gazed upon it for a long moment, a smile spreading beneath the mask, a smile that faded when he thought of Ahmedani’s words.

            How true it was that he chafed under the command of other men, especially someone as deficient as Nutkani. In the League of Shadows, he had risen quickly through the ranks, not only because of his physical strength and ability but because of his sharp mind and leadership skills, his fearlessness. By the time he had been excommunicated, only Rā’s al Ghūl himself and Damien Chase had outranked him.

            At the thought of Chase, Bane scowled and slipped Talia’s picture safely into his pack. Chase, an American, had commanded Bane’s final op, and it was Chase whom Bane blamed for Temujin’s death. Chase had always been suspicious of Temujin, for Jin had been in the League before his time spent in the pit prison but had been allowed to leave in order to avenge the rape and murder of his wife. Any man’s acceptance into the League was a commitment unto death, for the secrets entrusted to members could not safely be allowed beyond the brotherhood; yet Temujin had been an exception, the result of his close relationship with Rā’s, an intimacy born from the shared bereavement of their beloved wives’ similar tragic deaths. In fact, as far as Bane knew, Jin was the only man alive in whom Rā’s had confided his grief; Talia claimed that her father kept such sorrow even from her.

            “It’s hardened him,” she had said a short while ago. “I saw it when I first met him, but I thought…I hoped I could change that. I thought finding out he had a daughter would heal at least some of his pain.” She frowned. “But I don’t think I’ve done him any good at all.”

            Bane had taken her hand in his to soothe her. “Of course you have, _habibati_. You must never think otherwise. Ask Jin. You _have_ made a difference in your father. He’s told me as much.”

            But she remained unconvinced, and her disappointment in herself as well as the guilt she had always felt over Bane’s injuries suffered in her defense often saddened her beyond consolation. He hated to see her that way and would always do everything in his power to brighten her and make her laugh, but even his efforts often failed on such gloomy occasions.

            Sighing, he put his pack away. How he missed her! Sometimes the pain consumed him so thoroughly that he thought he would die from it.

            Knowing he needed to conquer such despair, he fled his comrades’ banter and headed back outside in search of a quiet spot to meditate and forget about fools like Nutkani. And to somehow combat his deep longings for the young woman whom he loved.


	8. Chapter 8

            Bane slipped soundlessly from his tent, utilizing skills acquired in the blackness of the pit prison and from his training with the League to completely blend with the moonless night. The wild wind tearing south from the Himalayas could not shred the blanket of thick, charcoal clouds that concealed the stars. He knew the bite of such wind from his old mountain home. Though the monastery had been built into the leeward side of the range, its occupants were not always spared from the writhing slashes of frigid air. Remembering those nights manifested the pleasant sensation of sitting in front of the fireplace either in his bedroom or the common room, Talia in his lap when she was younger, their warmth mingling and sustaining them. Even as a teenager, she had sometimes sat close, her arms around him or his around her, but not very often in her father’s presence, for Rā’s had made it plain with wry looks and comments to Talia that he thought such contact between a grown man and his young daughter inappropriate, no matter what their prison life had allowed or required.

            Bane moved along the company street with silent purpose. Upon reaching his destination, he crouched, blurred seamlessly against the side of a tent, listening to the snores of those inside. Waiting…waiting with the eternal patience of the ninja…

            He would not have to abide for long—Havildar Nutkani had a troublesome prostate, one that compelled him to urinate frequently, a weakness Bane had noted during their very first patrol. He knew much about the human body and its various frailties, had learned medicine from an early age, accompanying the prison doctor on daily rounds and assisting him with procedures and treatments. With pride, Bane remembered helping Doctor Assad deliver Talia. A terrifying and fascinating experience all at once.

            Bane’s fingers twitched. The thought of Talia made him unconsciously bring one hand up to the breast pocket of his coat. He pressed lightly against the small photo within. Never again would he leave it in his pack; no, he would keep it on his person, close to his heart. When he recalled Nutkani holding the picture, a scowl wrinkled his brow beneath his knit cap, and he had to suppress a deep growl of hatred.

            He knew Nutkani had taken Talia’s photo as a means to try and reestablish his authority in the eyes of the company. Bane had risen in popularity much too rapidly for the insecure little man’s taste. On their last patrol Bane had questioned one of the noncom’s orders in front of the squad. Red-faced and spitting, Nutkani had reprimanded Bane. Bane had said nothing, simply staring at him with an icy regard.

            “You think just because Barsad is friends with the Captain I cannot touch you,” Nutkani had sneered. “Well, you masked freak, we shall see, won’t we?”

            Who had actually taken the photo from his pack, though? Bane believed that much of Nutkani’s story—he had not been the one to actually swipe the item; after all, the havildar had been on patrol with Barsad most of the day when Bane had noticed the absence of the picture. The culprit was not from his own squad; of that Bane was certain. It would be someone over whom Nutkani wielded power, for Bane was equally sure that no man who knew him in the least would willfully put himself in such a dangerous position.

            As expected, none of the men interviewed during today’s investigation of the alleged assault on Nutkani had admitted seeing the attack, not even those seated at the same table. That meant Nutkani’s accomplice, if in the mess tent that morning, had also denied witnessing it. And if that was true, it bolstered Bane’s suspicion that the accomplice was a reluctant participant in the theft. Yet this did nothing to lessen Bane’s hatred of the man, whomever he was, for it did not erase the fact that the soldier was weak enough to be manipulated by someone as feebleminded as Nutkani. Bane did, however, allow a certain amount of personal pride from the united front portrayed by the others in his unit. Perhaps he had been a bit too harsh in his judgment of the NLI after all.

            A cough from inside the tent sharpened Bane’s awareness to a razor edge. He breathed evenly but not deeply, for he did not want the mask’s mechanical wheeze to give him away. Waited, listened, straining to hear through the muffling design of the mask. Through the soles of his feet, he sensed a tremor. Movement from within the tent. Bane’s unblinking gaze fixed upon the door, fingers restless again.

            An unexpected flash of memory distracted him, took him back to the pit, another black night when he had lain in wait to kill a man. Crazy Saul. A harmless old man who was guilty of nothing more than the dangerous misfortune of knowing Talia’s name, her true name, not the false name of Henri given at birth to hide her gender. Crazy Saul had learned it through a slip of Bane’s tongue, a moment when Bane had been unaware of the man’s presence one night outside his cell. Bane had been sitting on the floor, trying to comfort Melisande through the bars separating them. She had been crying over worries about Talia and her plight…

            The door to Nutkani’s tent swung open, further hiding Bane from the view of the man exiting. Bane did not breathe, did not stir, did not blink. As the door slapped to a close behind him, the shadowy figure mumbled something, paused to take in a strong gulp of fresh air, clearing his lungs of the fug from inside the tent. Then he turned away from Bane. For a moment Bane thought perhaps Nutkani was actually going to put forth the effort to go to the latrines. But after a few shuffling steps, the noncom halted near the far corner of the tent and unzipped his pants. As he sighed in relief over the patter of his odious, steaming stream, he closed his eyes and tilted his head back.

            Bane moved without a sound. Just a few long, smooth strides put him behind Nutkani without the man’s briefest awareness. His left hand covered the Pakistani’s mouth while his right arm snaked around Nutkani’s neck, all in one fluid motion. A single powerful twist. A snap. No time even for a whimper from the havildar. Just like Crazy Saul. Bane eased the twitching body downward, the mouth still covered. He paused a moment longer, ears attuned to the night for any movement inside the tent or out. Nothing, nothing but the wind. Then, with the warmth of satisfaction spreading throughout his limbs, Bane freed his victim and crept unseen back to his tent.

#

            No evidence, no witnesses, and only a whiff of alleged motivation. Certainly nothing with which Bane could be charged. And the death of Nutkani garnered no sense of loss or mourning from those in the ranks. In fact, the company’s mood, after hearing the news that morning, if anything improved. Bane carried on as if nothing had happened, for indeed to him nothing had, nothing but the necessary eradication of a disease, given no more thought than curing a case of typhoid fever in prison. Being under suspicion, however, earned him further relief from duty and confinement to his tent. And it was there that he lay reading on his cot when half the company filed out to go on patrol after the midday meal.

            As the men passed by, their quiet discussions that had first started beyond his hearing ceased, and he felt their curious, respectful gazes touching upon the book that he held between them. Fear emanated from many of them; he could feel it, smell it. So far Operation Badr had been a bloodless affair for them, and none of them had expected the first casualty to be one of their own, especially in this manner.

            A short while later Barsad entered the tent. Only a handful of men were still there, sitting far down the aisle. Barsad tossed them a dark glance to warn them off before approaching Bane. This was their first private moment since Nutkani’s body had been discovered.

            Barsad sat on the edge of his cot, expression deeply troubled, his body slightly hunched so he was closer to Bane. Speaking slightly above a whisper, Barsad began, “Jesus Christ, Bane. You can’t just go around snapping the neck of every bastard who flicks a finger at you. You’re in deep shit.”

            “Am I?” Bane indifferently turned a page. “Seems to me all I’ve done is gained some extra leisure time.”

            “God damn it, Bane.” Barsad shifted even closer to the edge of his cot. “You can’t be so fucking reckless. You couldn’t just wait and frag him in the field?”

            “When the bullets start to fly, men like Nutkani are nowhere to be found. He wasn’t just a fool; he was a dangerous fool. Eliminating him,” he cocked an eyebrow at Barsad, “—whomever it was who did it—saves lives, good lives, the lives of brave men, men who deserve to live.” He looked away from _War and Peace_ to pin a laser stare on Barsad. “Men like you.”

            Barsad tried to hide his understanding in a brief, cynical laugh. “And what have I done to deserve to live? What would you know about that? We know very little about each other, even after these several weeks. I don’t even know who this girl is you’d kill someone over just because he took her picture from you.” He sat back slightly and gestured sarcastically. “Thanks for the warning, by the way; God knows _I_ won’t be touching that picture.”

            Bane hesitated, considered whether or not to expound, then began, “The last mission I was on, before I sought out Maysam, I was subordinate to another man. I was third in command in the organization to which I belonged; he was second. A capable man, true enough, but we never got on well; he was jealous of me, of how rapidly I had progressed through the ranks. No doubt he feared I would one day displace him.” Bane shrugged one shoulder. “And I would have. So he would find ways to antagonize me. On that last op, he had gotten a hold of a picture of Talia and burnt it in front of me.”

            “So did you kill him for it?”

            Bane ignored the acerbity. “I allowed it because he was my superior officer. True, he also had a pistol pointed at me, but—believe me—that would not have stopped me if I had decided upon retribution. But my inaction was a mistake, a terrible, miscalculated mistake.”

            “Why?”

            “I have no doubt that my inaction that day led to the death of a friend of mine, a member of our team, a close friend, a man who had been in prison with me. He was the reason why I ultimately escaped, and it was he who trained me afterward. A good man, a valuable asset. Too valuable to be thrown away in such a manner.”

            “What happened?”

            “Our commander—the one who burnt the picture—sacrificed him, allowed him to be killed in order to maintain his cover.” Bane shook his head, stared hard at his book, saw Temujin’s body lying there in that Shanghai street. “But it wasn’t necessary; not in my eyes. If I had been there, I wouldn’t have allowed it. But I had been following orders, stationed at a different location, even though instinct told me to be near my friend that day. I told myself that I could trust the chain of command, that my superior officer would protect not only our target but our man inside as well.”

            “But you said your friend died so his cover wasn’t blown.”

            Bane growled, “It was a lie. He was set up. Our commander had always despised him; they had a history before I ever came into the picture. I should have known when he destroyed Talia’s picture that it would embolden him, seeing how I did not challenge him then as I should have. No doubt he felt I would react the same way when he told me my friend’s death was a necessity for the success of the mission.”

            “Something tells me you didn’t.”

            “Of course not. I make few mistakes, and never the same one twice.”

            “So you killed him.”

            “Yes. And by doing so I was no longer welcome in the organization.”

            “Well, it would appear history repeats itself.” Barsad sighed as if tired. “I knew coming into this that you have an edge to you, but I didn’t think it was a suicidal one. Methods such as yours often have collateral damage. I’ve seen it before, firsthand.”

            Bane no longer saw the words upon the pages before him, for anger blurred his vision. “If you are concerned about your safety, perhaps you should distance yourself from me. I’m sure Ahmedani would accommodate you.”

            “It’s Ahmedani I’m concerned about. He took a gamble on you…because of me. So whatever you do is on him and me. That’s how I see it. He did us both a favor, and neither he nor I take kindly to your method of repayment.”

            Slowly Bane closed the book and set it beside him, taking the time to dismiss the flare of irritation he had allowed a moment before and to force away the emotions stirred by discussing Temujin’s death. “You are right, of course.”

            “I…” Barsad choked on his words. “What?”

            “Yes. I am indebted to both you and Ahmedani. But don’t you think I considered that before taking action?”

            “To tell you the truth, Bane, I’m not sure you always _think_ before you act.”

            “Then you have much to learn about me, brother.”

            Abruptly Barsad’s expression changed, as if Bane’s words had been a physical blow. All color fled his ruddy complexion, and he looked suddenly cold, as if they were standing outside. His pale blue eyes lost the fire of a brief moment ago and reflected something dark and sorrowful. A memory. Bane knew that look, that vacuous distance seen in his own mirror so many times, like a punch to the gut.

            Quickly Barsad turned away as he muttered, “Well, I guess that makes two of us.” He snatched up his rifle and cleaning kit. Then, without another word, he left the tent.

#

            The summons to Captain Ahmedani’s tent came late in the day. When Bane arrived, he found Barsad already inside. Both he and Ahmedani looked disgruntled. The officer did not invite either of his men to sit down in the cramped space. The captain remained on his feet as well, standing before them with hands behind his back and a gray pall hovering about him.

            “It has come down to this, gentlemen,” Ahmedani began in a clipped voice. “The Colonel has made it plain that accepting Bane into our ranks was a grave mistake. Guilty or not—and there’s no way to truly prove guilt—Bane cannot remain with us.” He shot a glance at Barsad before the American could speak, “And you should consider yourself fortunate, Bane, that discharge is the only result. If not for Barsad, I would have foregone any involvement in the Colonel’s decision, and no doubt you would have fared much worse. So for that you owe Barsad your thanks as much or more than me.”

            Bane had expected this result, if not something worse, so he remained impassive, merely nodding once. “I appreciate your efforts, sir, and your honesty.”

            “If you would like,” Ahmedani continued, “I can contact our militant Kashmiri brothers and see if they are interested in your services.”

            “I can do that,” Barsad spoke up, surprising Bane. “Actually, sir, if you can arrange it with Battalion, I’d like to request to be discharged as well.”

            Ahmedani’s dark eyebrows knit. “Why? There’s no need for you to leave—”

            “I know, sir, but…” He glanced at Bane, and in that brief look Bane saw the faint remains of that haunted memory he had glimpsed earlier in their tent. “Well, I promised a friend that I would…um…keep an eye on Bane. I won’t say ‘keep him out of trouble,’ because obviously I’ve already failed at that.”

            Bane scowled at him. “I don’t require a bodyguard.”

            “Bodyguard?” A sardonic grin slipped out. “Not likely you need that, no. That’s not what I mean.”

            “Are you quite sure, Barsad?” Ahmedani asked. “I’d prefer to keep you, but if you feel obligated—”

            “He isn’t obligated,” Bane growled. “He can stay.” But even as he said it, Bane realized his words were merely prideful, and that realization surprised him, causing him to say the last sentence dispassionately.

            “Barsad?” Ahmedani pressed hopefully, allowed him one more chance to reconsider.

            Bane refused to look at his comrade now, for he did not want the American to possibly read his true feelings. He considered these emotions to be a weakness and feared Barsad would exploit them. He scoffed at himself; surely he was mistaken about what he felt. After all, as Barsad had pointed out, they knew very little about one another, certainly not enough to have formed any significant, valuable bond. No, he told himself, whatever he felt for Barsad was simply gratitude for the man’s help in securing him contacts and a job. That and his appreciation of having such a skilled marksman by his side in what would soon be a war zone.

            Though Bane continued to stare straight ahead, he could sense Barsad’s small, somewhat smug smile when he responded to Ahmedani, “I will say one thing for my masked friend here—there’re sure to be fireworks wherever he goes, and you know how I do enjoy a good display of fireworks, Captain.”

            “Yes,” Ahmedani said, relaxing and allowing the smile that came with the memory. “I do recall that from our brief time in Paris.” Then the pleasant reflection vanished, and hard authority jumped back into his expression. “Very well then. I’ll see what I can do, Barsad, though I will hate to lose you.”

            “Thank you, sir.”

            Once they left the tent, Barsad kept pace with Bane’s quickened steps, though Bane tried to stay ahead of him in a gesture of dismissiveness. The American, however, would not be deterred. Begrudgingly, Bane admired his tenacity.

            He glanced sidelong at Barsad, tried to stifle a small smile when he grumbled, “Fireworks, you say?”

            “Yeah. Love ’em. Ever since I was a little kid.” He grinned, and his eyes danced. “The bigger, the better.”


	9. Chapter 9

            Bane blinked against the glare of the late spring sun and pressed the binoculars to his eyes. He focused the glasses and scanned the two-lane road some thirty-two hundred meters below his mountain vantage point. A variety of traffic crept along: old trucks and cars, carts pulled by horses or donkeys. A steady, trickling flow along the Indian national highway—or NH1 as it was often called—moving between Srinagar to the south and Kargil to the north, then eastward along the valleys to Leh. The region’s lifeblood. Bane’s fingers twitched against the binoculars. Blood indeed, for no doubt in the weeks to come that is exactly what would be spilled upon that highway and in the surrounding barren mountains.

            What remained of Bane’s nose beneath his mask twitched in irritation, and he lowered the binoculars long enough to scowl at Barsad stretched out on the ground beside him. The insouciant American lay on his back, his rifle beside him, soaking up the sun, dragging on a cigarette.

            “Put that thing out,” Bane growled.

            Barsad took a long pull then laconically puffed the words, “Nag, nag, nag,” before he crushed out the short remains of the cigarette against one of the many rocks nearby. With his eyes still closed, he grinned to soften his complaint. “C’mon, Bane. What’s eating at you? You’ve hardly spoken since you got that letter yesterday.”

            Bane’s stare hardened as he swept the binoculars to the left and studied the distant low buildings of Kargil. The valley town was not overly large, somewhere around eight thousand people, situated on a rise. The Suru River meandered past it, its waters nurturing the only green vistas in an otherwise drab, tawny landscape. He and some of his men had been in the town more than once, reconnoitering for the Pakistani army, the most recent visit just yesterday. They had posed as travelers, an easy enough cover for the Kashmiri militant tribesmen under Bane’s command. To blend in with his comrades, Bane had kept his mask hidden behind a _shemagh_. The town itself was of little consequence, but nearby was an ammunition dump belonging to the Indian military. Bane’s focus drifted there now as he tried to ignore Barsad’s inquiry.

            But his companion would not relent. “Bad news in the letter, I take it?”

            “No,” Bane grumbled.

            “So it wasn’t the letter then.” The loose gravel crunched beneath Barsad as he sat up to ponder, shifting slightly downward so his shape was not outlined against the sky behind him. “Hmm.” He cradled his rifle. “Something happened in Kargil then.”

            “Let it go, Barsad.”

            “Let it go? No fun in that. I’m bored. Sitting on top of this mountain for the past two weeks is making me itch. C’mon. Humor me for once. We’ve been together over four months now, and you’ve told me next to nothing about you. Such mystery tends to make a man a bit leery.”

            Bane continued to study the town. The truth of the matter was that the letter from Talia, forwarded to him through Maysam, had indeed disturbed him, but not because of any bad news; indeed, it had contained none. No, his unrest had manifested from his crushing desire to see Talia. His unsettled mood had then been compounded by his foray into Kargil where the villagers’ Dard and Tibetan heritages imbued them with mongoloid features, which only served to painfully remind him of Temujin. Memories of the dynamic little Mongol had battered his thoughts and tangled with his torturous longings for Talia during the climb back to the mountain outpost. He wondered if he would ever be able to forgive himself for Temujin’s death.

            Upon his return to their remote base, he had read Talia’s letter again. She wrote about school and about her plans for the summer—she would be spending most of it in France with a friend’s family. At Le Rosey, French was the language she spoke the most, so much so that by now whenever she spoke English, her words carried a slightly exotic, French-flavored accent. Bane smiled at the memory of her voice, like a beloved piece of music played upon Passat’s violin back at the monastery. The letter spoke little of Talia’s father, and he feared that the rift he had caused would forever alienate daughter from father. This regret, along with those about Temujin, and an overall loneliness over the loss of two such important figures in his life had led to his present melancholia.

            Bane felt Barsad’s weighty gaze upon him, refusing to give up. Behind the mask, he frowned, and some of the resistance fled, relaxing his stiff shoulders. Perhaps he should not be so obtuse around Barsad. After all, the American had been nothing but reliable and amiable since they had first met. He admitted that his past relationships with Americans attributed to his disassociate tendencies around Barsad, but he realized such practices were unfair. And, he wondered, perhaps he had thus far kept his distance for fear of eventually losing yet another significant friend.

            Eventually the binoculars lowered, and Bane glanced over at Barsad. The American’s blue eyes did not waver, staring out from a face already slightly tanned. His winter beard had been shaved off long ago, though he regularly sported several days’ growth of stubble, as he did today. Faint remnants of his grin survived. Though Bane did not say as much, he always appreciated—and envied—Barsad’s easy sense of humor. It was a welcomed balance to his own tendencies toward asceticism.

            “If I tell you, you will think me soft.”

            Barsad laughed. “There are several things I could call you, Bane, but ‘soft’ ain’t one of ’em.”

            Bane returned the binoculars to their case and shoved himself back from the crest to sit near Barsad. Momentarily his attention drifted slightly downward along the rear face of the treeless mountain to the small, squat buildings where he and his men were stationed. He turned up the collar on his jacket, for though the valleys were warm, up here the wind bore a cold sting.

            “Do you miss your family, John?”

            Bane rarely used Barsad’s given name, and hearing it seemed to disturb Barsad, killing whatever mirth had lingered upon his face.

            Though he almost regretted starting down this path, Bane continued nonetheless, “I mean how long has it been since you’ve seen your family?”

            Barsad’s grip tightened upon his rifle before he caught himself and loosened his hold, letting one hand slide down the barrel. “Hmm. Lemme think.” He stared westward across the orange-tinted mountains, the tallest among them still capped with snow. “Something like twelve years, I believe.” Absently he ground the butt of his rifle against the gravel. “Not much to miss, though, really. Just my Ma.”

            “Your father is dead?”

            A sardonic grin twitched one corner of Barsad’s mouth. “I wish.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “He ain’t much worth the air he breathes. Never was.”

            “Any siblings?”

            Barsad’s expression completely closed, and the rifle butt bit hard into the soil. A muscle twitched in his cheek. “One brother.” His jaw clenched. “But he’s dead.” Abruptly he cleared his throat. “But now you’ve changed the subject, haven’t you, Bane? You’re good at that when it comes to yourself. We started this conversation about you; why don’t we get back to that?”

            The question was caustic, leaving no room for argument, so Bane respected his obvious discomfort in the subject of his West Virginia family.

            “Did something happen in Kargil?”

            Bane stared into the valley below the outpost, feeling its emptiness. Then slowly he opened up about the emotions that had been troubling him concerning both Temujin and Talia, though as usual he avoided any details about Talia’s identity or the sexual aspect of their relationship.

            “I thought I would adjust to this life better by now. After all, I’m accustomed to being in the field.”

            “Sure, you are. But the difference is you have only this. You’re used to going back to your home in between operations.”

            “You said you haven’t been home in twelve years. You never think about it? About going back, I mean. Even for a while?”

            “No.” That now-familiar shadow darkened his eyes. “But it sounds like your home is a lot more…appealing than mine. Does Talia live there?”

            “No.” Bane hesitated. “But her father does, so she occasionally visits still.”

            “Then I reckon that eliminates one of my guesses.”

            “Guesses?”

            “Yeah, that she’s your daughter. I mean, she sounded young on the phone.”

            Bane momentarily turned his face away to hide the flush of color that sprang into his cheeks. When he and Talia had made love, their age difference had been immaterial; what had passed between them that night had seemed a natural progression in their complicated, intimate relationship. Yet he was aware of how certain societies would frown upon the union of a couple with fifteen years between them, especially when the female was considered a minor in such societies. And of course there had been the reaction of Talia’s father, as she had described it in detail on more than one occasion, taking pleasure in rankling her parent, using it as a form of punishment for Rā’s’ excommunication of Bane. Bane often wondered how Rā’s would react were their paths ever to cross again.

            “She is young, but her soul is old,” Bane said at last, turning back to look at Barsad, a sharp stare that warned against delving deeper.

            Barsad pursed his lips, nodded, questions filling his eyes, but he was wise enough to take his small victory and not push for more, at least not right now. “Will you see her again?”

            “I hope so, but…I don’t know.” He took his rifle into his hands. “Hopefully one day I will be as comfortable as you in this life.”

            “Well, don’t think I’m immune to what you’re feeling. Why do you think I worked for Siddig so long? At the time I was a bit tired, thought a steady position like that was what I needed. I mean, I wasn’t always in Rajasthan—I went wherever Siddig needed me to go—but I always had a base, you know, kinda like you did. So I understand what you mean.”

            Bane peered closer at Barsad’s downturned face and leadingly said, “Maysam.”

            Barsad lifted his head in surprise. “What about her?”

            Bane hesitated, not sure he wanted to know the answer, but curiosity got the better of him. “It was easy enough to see you care about her a great deal.” A small grin crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Was there a…an indiscretion?”

            Barsad stared, his jaw loosening, his ruddy complexion darkening even more. Then he recovered and his usual cheekiness returned as a defense, “And why should I tell you anything when you’re always throwing up smokescreens?” He playfully lobbed a rock at Bane and slid even farther below the crest before getting to his feet, his heavy Barrett .50 caliber cradled in his arms. “C’mon. I smell goat on the menu. Abdul must be cooking today.”

            With a slight laugh, Bane started to rise, always a laborious effort, thanks to his tortured back. Barsad thrust out a hand.

            “C’mon, old man. Let me help you.”

            Bane batted away his hand but his eyes showed an appreciative smile. “It’s not the years; it’s the mileage.”

            Barsad laughed heartily. “Bane quoting Indiana Jones. Will wonders never cease today?”

#

            Bane’s bamboo crochet hook moved with fluid precision, rhythmical, stitch after stitch, row after row, the growing length of a scarf laid out in his lap where he sat cross-legged on the floor of the bunker. A crackling fire in the wood-burning stove, bolstered by the body heat of nearly two dozen men, kept the nighttime cold from intruding. He sat slightly apart from his men, his back to a corner, an old habit. Though he kept his tired eyes on his work, he was aware of everyone in the room. The conversations were a mix of Kashmiri, Pashto, and Urdu. Bane was fluent in the latter, and in the ten weeks he had been with the militant tribesmen, he had picked up a working knowledge of the others. However, most of the men also knew English as a second language, so Bane’s ability to understand their native tongues was not imperative; yet he made it a practice to always be a student, to acquire new skills, and it was plain that his men appreciated and respected his efforts.

            He glanced at his watch, never missing a stitch as he did so. It was getting late. Soon he would don his coat to check on those who were on watch, including Barsad, to walk the perimeter and make sure all were alert and protected as much as possible from the unforgiving elements. Thinking of their Indian adversaries beyond the highway, he was quite certain they were far more comfortable than his men.

            His thoughts drifted over these past few weeks stationed here on the mountaintop. He had not started out in command. That honor had been unexpectedly bestowed upon him when Santha Dhar had fallen ill and relinquished his authority. Dhar and Bane had gotten along well from the outset. Dhar’s younger life had been one of hardship and poverty, leading him into the ranks of men fighting for various causes. He had had a gun in his hands most of his life and figured he would die that way as well. Dhar had recommended Bane as his temporary replacement, and no one had objected, not only because they trusted Dhar’s judgment but because these men, more so than Bane’s comrades in the NLI, had seemed to sense his fighting qualities and natural authority right away. The more superstitious or primitive among them looked upon him and his mask with a certain awe, as if he were some deity from another world. Of course, such beliefs had been bolstered by Barsad and his penchant for making up fantastic tales about Bane just to see what reactions he could garner.

            Bane preferred these men over those in the NLI or the regular Pakistani army. Though they ultimately answered to the Pakistani military and took orders from that body during this operation, they were definitely cut from a different cloth, both as soldiers and as men. Bane found infinitely more honor among them as well as a toughness that was inherent, not just a matter of training. They complained little and could withstand much. Bane had no qualms about their combat readiness.

            He paused in his work, set aside his hook, and rubbed his eyes. Flexing the stiffness from his fingers, he sighed.

            As his thoughts often did at night when at leisure, they turned to Talia, and he wondered what she was doing. Though he tried to deny himself, he reached inside his layered clothing to bring forth her small photograph. Almost dog-eared now. He knew he should stop carrying it on his person. After all, none of these men would even think of touching something that was not their own. He frowned wistfully at Talia’s smile as she looked across her right shoulder at him. She wore a sleeveless, pale teal blouse, her bare shoulder raised just slightly, drawing closer to her tapered chin, giving her a coquettish look. Had she manufactured such an expression? No, it came naturally to her, a quality that troubled him when he thought of the young, wealthy boys who surrounded her at Le Rosey…and when he thought of Rā’s al Ghūl’s designs for his daughter. No doubt Rā’s, too, had recognized such qualities in Talia, but unlike Bane, Rā’s saw them as assets, weapons, of far greater value to the League than the combat training she had received.

            “You look at her often,” the voice of Farooq Nehru pulled Bane from his reverie.

            Bane’s first impulse was to hide the photo away again in his pocket, but he was not ready to do so. Instead he set it on his thigh and took up his crochet again, giving him an excuse not to look at Nehru, his third in command.

            “What is her name?” Nehru continued in his accented English, his words gentle, lacking any trace of ignobility.

            Bane hesitated. “Talia.”

            “Family?”

            “You could say so.”

            Nehru nodded, settling against the wall, allowing space between them. His movement was made with care, for he was not a young man. His brown face, wizened by years in the elements, belonged to someone much older than Nehru’s forty-five years. A faded orange and white turban hid the traces of gray in his dark hair. “You miss her.”

            “Yes.”

            “I miss my family as well.”

            “Do you have any children?”

            “Yes. Five of them.”

            The crochet hook continued its familiar movements. “How do you protect them when you are so far away?”

            “I protect them by providing for them.” Nehru gestured toward his nearby rifle. “This is how I provide for them.”

            “And if you should be killed?”

            “Then my brother will care for them.”

            Bane grunted cynically when he thought of his own half-brother, a sibling he had never met, nor did he ever expect to meet.

            Nehru raised one gray-flecked eyebrow. “You have no brothers to care for your family?”

            “No.”

            Nehru nodded, thoughtfully stroking his beard. “Ah, but you have a brother here.”

            Bane frowned in confusion. “No.”

            “Barsad. He is your brother.”

            “No, we aren’t related.”

            “By blood, no. But a true brother is made up of much more than blood.”

            Bane remembered the time after Nutkani’s death when he had used the word brother in Barsad’s presence and had seen that immediate, enigmatic change in the American’s whole being. A similar reaction to what he had witnessed several days ago when Barsad revealed that his own brother was dead.

            “We haven’t known each other that long,” Bane said as a way to dismiss Nehru’s observation.

            “Long enough to have forged a bond.” Nehru nodded to himself. “He looks up to you, as a younger brother looks up to his eldest.”

            “Your eyes are old and deceptive, my friend,” Bane teased, turning his crochet and beginning a new row. “And if I were you, I would be resting those eyes tonight. This might be your last night of rest for a while.”

            Nehru nodded again, this time sagely, with the wisdom of a veteran soldier. “You expect an attack tomorrow.”

            “Well, the batteries you scouted today weren’t deployed just to gather dust.” He cast an appreciative glance Nehru’s way. “They will try to soften us up with those Bofors before they send men up this mountain. Tomorrow night there will be no moon. They will come then.”

            “They would be wiser simply to blockade the supply routes of our Pakistani brethren. It is what I would do.”

            “But to do so, the Indians would have to cross the LOC. Ground or aerial assaults into Pakistani territory would draw condemnation from other countries. No, they will want the Paks to be seen as the invaders, and they the defenders, the ones on the side of right, protecting their homeland.”

            “So many outposts along the mountaintops. Our Indian friends will pay a high price if they hope to recapture them.”

            “Indeed they will. Let us make it so.” Bane gathered his crochet and tucked it away into his pack. “Now I must make my rounds.”

            Before leaving the bunker, Bane poured a cup of coffee from the stove. Barsad would need it—he had run out of cigarettes today.


	10. Chapter 10

            The next day Nehru took men down the mountain to acquire more ammunition from the Pakistani supply chain. In anticipation of the attack, the rest of Bane’s command fortified positions—rifle pits dug deeper where the soil allowed, reinforced with sandbags; and where the ground was less forgiving, the sangars were strengthened with even more rocks and debris. Bane risked sniper fire to personally inspect the forward positions located below the crest, ensuring each had the best possible line of sight down the mountain. These defensive positions would not be manned until after the artillery bombardment had ceased. Then once the Indians began their painstaking ascent, half of Bane’s force would occupy this elongated line, providing defilade fire upon the attackers. The second line of defense was closer to the crest, concentrated on the flanks, allowing enfilade fire into any Indian forces assaulting the first line or pressing toward the bunker’s main position.

            Bane’s fingers twitched restlessly whenever he considered the other Pakistani outposts to the north and south of him. If any of those collapsed, this post could easily be flanked. He would need to have a steady man on the radio, staying in close contact with the Dras region to their south and the Batalik region to the north.

            For several hours Pakistani artillery shells screamed over their heads, seeking out the Indian batteries hidden behind the mountains across the valley, using coordinates Bane’s men had called in, thanks to Nehru’s reconnaissance. Hopefully the Pak gunners would find their targets before the Indians could redeploy their howitzers.

            By mid-afternoon the guns fell silent. Bane took advantage of the lull and ordered an early supper cooked for all. Best not to have his men fighting on empty stomachs, particularly when it was impossible to gauge when they would next have an opportunity to eat, especially a hot meal. The men ate outside in the crisp mid-May day, the sun slipping in and out of high, racing clouds of white. Conversation was light and easy, interspersed with some laughter, as if this day were like any of the other mundane ones before it. Bane’s satisfied eyes swept across his men’s faces. All had been in combat before, close combat. He had no doubts about any of them.

            Barsad sat among them, finished with his meal now, and happily lighting up a cigarette. Earlier in the day he had volunteered for Nehru’s detail down the mountain, as eager to acquire tobacco as he was bullets. Bane grunted to himself. He would not begrudge Barsad’s habit today. Whatever it took to keep his sharpshooter’s fingers steady.

            Deadshot. The nickname had followed Barsad here from the NLI. Bane himself had propagated the moniker among his men, knowing Barsad secretly enjoyed the notoriety. Of course the tribesmen had immediately demanded proof of the American’s skills, and they had just as quickly been satisfied beyond all doubts.

            Bane considered what Nehru had said yesterday about his relationship with Barsad. He was unconvinced that Barsad held him in as high esteem as Nehru said. True enough, they shared the usual bond of soldiers, and he certainly would miss Barsad’s company should they part ways, but who could say if Barsad felt the same way? Bane could not imagine Barsad sharing such thoughts with any of the others. Not when he wanted to nurture his reputation as a cold-blooded killer.

            Having finished his meal and replaced his mask, Bane headed into the bunker to replenish his analgesic. He also transferred several days’ supply from his pack to his various pockets. That way if a shell happened to destroy the bunker and his drug supply there, he would still have enough to last him until he could acquire more through the usual channels.

            Once back outside, he took one last tour around the perimeter, at last assuring himself that he had done all he could to be prepared.

#

            The Indian artillery opened up late in the day, sending Bane’s men scrambling for cover on the reverse slope of the mountain. Only a handful of men remained in forward positions to report on any infantry massing in the valley below for an assault, though Bane figured those preparations would not occur until just before dark.

            The Indian gunners dropped shells all across the mountain, though many shrieked beyond the crest to fall into the valley below. Several reduced the outpost’s smaller outlying buildings to rubble before nightfall, but the bunker itself fell victim only to a glancing blow that crumbled one rear corner. Hugging cover on the reverse slope, the worst Bane’s men suffered were a few minor wounds from flying shards of rock from the closer strikes. Any craters left behind by the barrage would make convenient foxholes.

            Bane had Gami, the radioman, with him, periodically reporting in to central command. More importantly, he listened keenly to reports from other outposts, some of which were also weathering a storm of artillery. Like them, the others were merely hunkering down, awaiting the ground assault. He also kept in constant contact with his men in the forward positions, Barsad among them. Though concerned about the danger such an assignment presented his friend, he also wanted the outfit’s best eyes watching what was happening in that valley.

            Finally twilight slipped along the valley below Bane’s position, though the sun still played along the tops of the mountains. Lights would be winking on in the distant town of Kargil; Barsad would be seeing them now. Bane wondered about the civilians. Were they terrified by the thundering roll of artillery bouncing back and forth off the hills and mountains? Were they as disturbed as the streaking flocks of birds that had sped through the skies earlier? Had the Indian army warned them? Bane assumed as much, for he had seen a steady stream of refugees along the highway in the past few days.

            As evening shadows crept up from the valley, the last volley roared from the Indian guns, rolling on and on, reverberating with one final, defiant growl. Bane—for once pleased about the mask’s muffling effect on his hearing—waited for several minutes to ensure this was the last. He glanced at his watch then at the sun over his shoulder. The blood-red orb had already begun to slide below the western ranges, luring the darkness ever closer to him. He sighed in pleasant anticipation. Even after all these years away from the pit prison, he still felt most comfortable when surrounded by night; it felt like Melisande’s soothing blanket thrown over his shoulders. The darkness belonged to him and he to it. Let the Indians come.

            “We’ve got movement on our front,” Barsad’s voice crackled over the com.

            “To your posts!” Bane ordered over his radio.

            The mountainside came alive as his men rushed up the slope. They paused just before the crest, waited, looking over their shoulders at the dying sun, then when it fell beyond the mountains and no longer threatened to silhouette them, they hurried forward and along the flanks to their assigned positions. Bane and Gami entered the bunker, which would serve as the command post.

            The night was long and cold for his men out on the mountainside as they vigilantly watched through night vision goggles the painstakingly slow progress of the _jawans_ climbing up the steep slope. Machine gun fire laid down by Bane’s men further hampered the advancing troops, many of whom would have little experience in high altitude combat; these would tire quickly and slow the others. Even if acclimatized, it would take them hours to scale the heights, and by the time they could reach even Barsad’s position, they would be exhausted, too exhausted to be effective.

            So Bane waited patiently, urging the night on in the hopes that morning would leave their foe stranded and exposed on the mountain slope with no way up and no way down.

#

            The Indian troops had progressed only some eighteen hundred meters by dawn. With the rising sun in the faces of Bane’s men, he expected the enemy to try at least one last push to secure higher ground, but instead the advance completely stalled. In concert with machine guns, Bane’s men used mortars and grenade launchers to further hamper and discourage the Indians. And although artillery came to bear once again, attempting to suppress the firepower of Bane’s men, none of the ground forces advanced more than a few dozen meters during daylight hours. By the following morning, the mountainside was once again devoid of Indian forces.

            “We can thank the mountain sickness,” Nehru said over a steaming cup of coffee outside the bunker.

            “Yes, as we expected,” Bane nodded. “Those men are used to the heat and lower altitude of the Kashmiri Valley, and their commanders have not had the luxury or foresight to allow them time to acclimatize. Most of them lack cold-weather gear. No doubt some suffered frostbite last night.”

            “Time is on their side, though,” Barsad said. “If we aren’t reinforced or relieved, they’ll grow stronger and adapt while we grow weaker.”

            Though Bane frowned his displeasure at Barsad’s comments, he knew all too well that his friend was correct. Their force numbered less than fifty, and though they held the advantageous high ground, untold days or weeks atop this mountain would wear down his men, especially now that the enemy had begun an offensive. The first assault had failed, but another would come soon; perhaps as soon as tonight. With this in mind, Bane left only a skeleton force in the forward sangars and along each flank, then rotated men periodically so everyone had a chance to return to the bunker to eat and rest in relative warmth until the next, inevitable attack.

            Over the following ten days, the outpost came under fire nearly every day from artillery. Infantry attempted two more attacks, one during the day and one at night. Bane knew that every failure to dislodge the defenders here and at other points along the LOC taught the Indian high command valuable lessons, the obvious being that frontal assaults, even with far superior numbers, were too costly and nearly pointless.

            Late in May, Bane awoke to the roar of jets. He rushed from the bunker in time to see two MiG-21s soar in from the east, early sunlight flashing upon their wings as they banked and headed south.

            “Headed for Tololing,” Barsad said to the other men who had gathered to watch the Russian-made fighters grow smaller. “Won’t waste their time on us…yet.”

            Bane grunted, a hundred calculations whirring in his head. “I wouldn’t worry too much about the IAF. This altitude will diminish the accuracy of their weapons and adversely affect the jets’ performance.” He nodded toward one of his men. “Khatun, deploy the SAMs. Those fighters come back this way, we’ll make them regret flying so low.”

            Though Bane’s men waited eagerly for a chance to fire one of the surface-to-air missiles, the MiGs did not fly over again that day. The next, however, they returned. The men cheered later when word came over the radio that a MiG-27 had suffered engine failure and crashed, and an NLI unit had brought down a MiG-21 with a stinger missile. The following day, another stinger took down an IAF attack helicopter.

            “That will be the end of their low level flying,” Barsad predicted. “They’ll leave us alone.”

            “Us, yes,” Bane said. “But there are other targets they can hit from higher altitudes where SAMs can’t reach them.”

            “Supply lines,” Nehru said.

            “Yes.” Bane glanced down into the valley behind their positions. “So while we have the chance, Nehru, send a detail with the mules to get as much food and ammunition as can be carried. No doubt it will be our last chance. Send only two men—we can ill afford even two.”

            “We run out of food, we can always eat the mules,” Barsad said with a grin.

#

            In sudden fury, Bane crumpled the letter in his hand. Violent anger propelled him to his feet and out of the bunker. He stormed away from the small cluster of crude buildings, ignoring the questioning glances of the handful of men unloading the fresh supplies from the tired mules. Thankfully Barsad was not among them, for Bane did not want his friend to witness his momentary lapse of control.

            Bane paced some ways down the reverse slope, the letter still clenched in his grip. His breath rattled through the mask, as jagged and broken as his thoughts, jetting clouds of vapor before him. He had left the bunker without his coat, hat, or gloves, and though it was early summer, the temperatures at this high elevation were still low and would drop lower still once the failing sun slipped beyond the western range. He stared at it now, cursed it because he could, and though he was not normally a profane man, right now he _needed_ to curse something.

            His boots crunched across the rocky soil as he paced back and forth, hands balled into fists, trying to regain his composure. This was not the time or place to be distracted by things over which he had no control. No control! How he hated the helpless feeling. He should be _there_ , not here. _He_ should be there.

            As his steps gradually slowed, so too did his respiration until at last he stood still, his hard gaze raking across the jagged mountaintops toward the sun, soon to set. He needed to refocus. He needed to get back to the task at hand. Nighttime here was the most dangerous, the most inviting for an attack. Others were depending on him. Lives at stake. What this letter contained was not life or death. Yet to him the news had seemed just as grave, for it signified a finality, the complete realization that whatever hope he had held onto about regaining Rā’s al Ghūl’s favor was fruitless.

            “Hope,” Bane remembered the word being thrown at him like a weapon by a fellow prisoner in the pit, a man who had mocked Bane’s dream of escape, a man whom Bane had eventually killed. “Like a cloak wrapped around you,” the Vulture had sneered, “snug and warm, but then the cloak turns into a snake that squeezes the life from you.”

            Slowly Bane opened his grip and compelled his fingers to straighten the sheet of paper back into readable shape. Before the distant mountains could steal away the light, he read the contents of the letter again. Talia’s small handwriting. Not as neat as usual. No, the words were written quickly and with harsh strokes, revealing her own anger. How he wished he had been there to comfort her, to focus on her emotions instead of his own.

            _I wasn’t going to tell you_ , the letter began, _because I know it will make you as angry as it has made me, and I don’t know what kind of situation you are in right now; I especially don’t want to upset you if you are in a dangerous place, which I’m guessing you are since I haven’t heard from you since New Dehli. But I can’t keep it to myself,_ habibi _; I know you will understand, as you always do._

 _Papa has taken in Bruce Wayne! He was able to find him in some God forsaken prison and bought his freedom. I’m sure that cost him a pretty penny, but you know Papa; he always gets what he wants. The very thought of someone like Wayne living in_ our _home makes me sick. Papa is going to train Wayne himself. Can you believe that? Think of how much time that will take. I can hardly believe Papa would neglect his more important duties to waste his time with Wayne._

            Something twisted inside Bane’s stomach. But he quickly berated his weakness. It was foolish, especially after all this time, to feel slighted by Rā’s’ decision not to train him when he had come to the League, instead leaving those responsibilities to Temujin. And after all, Temujin had been an excellent teacher. But of course it had not been just about the training; Bane had hoped to forge a close relationship with Rā’s, and he believed the rigors of endless hours of training together would provide the foundation for just such a paternal connection. But Rā’s had always kept him at arm’s length, so much so that Bane often thought Rā’s had never really believed in him, had expected, perhaps wanted, him to fail, providing an excuse to be rid of his charge, rid of the monster who had fallen in love with his wife but who had failed, like Rā’s himself, to save her.

            _Of course it will take months if not years to train someone like Wayne_ , the letter continued. _He will not have the commitment that we have. No doubt he will fail, and Papa will see the mistake he has made. Then he will be forced to kill Wayne. I hope I’m there to see it. And when it happens, Papa will regret losing you. There is no one in the League as deserving as you to be second-in-command, to be ready for the day when Papa is an old man and will relinquish his position. Once his plans for Wayne fail, Papa will see the error of his ways, and I will be able to convince him you are crucial to the League’s survival and success. But until that day,_ habibi _, I have no plans to see Papa; even if he travels to Switzerland, I will refuse to see him. If he wants his daughter back, he will have to take you back. That is my ultimatum to him. I’ve already told him as much._

            Though her continued espousal flattered him, Bane still winced at these words. Talia was far too young to be wielding such emotion and power over her father. No matter his conflicted feelings about Rā’s al Ghūl, he would continue to caution Talia against such foolhardy plans. Bane did, however, admit relief at the prospect of Talia avoiding Bruce Wayne. If Wayne was any sort of intelligent man, he would be drawn to the young woman, recognizing not only her external beauty but her exceptional acumen and maturity. How could any man resist his _habibati_? And like all men of wealth and power, Wayne would be accustomed to getting whatever caught his eye, whether he deserved it or not.

            Bane realized his hands were clenched again, his fingertips forcing small tears in the paper. Admonishing his impulses, he smoothed the paper against his thigh.

            _I miss you so much, Bane. I hope you have been receiving my letters. I will keep sending them in the hopes that you are receiving them and that they make some positive difference to you. I don’t want you to forget me._

            Now it was his heart that clenched, and he squeezed his eyes shut, unwittingly emitted a tiny groan. How could his love ever think he could forget her? He longed to call her, to write her, to assure her that she would always have him, that he could never for a minute banish the thought of her. Even amidst the storm of artillery shells, mortars, and deprivation atop this mountain, it was Talia who sustained him. She was his courage, his very reason to keep living. He would tell her this, all of this once this siege was over.

            Distant thunder turned his attention southward. More shelling in the direction of Dras. Bane’s eyes narrowed against the diminishing light. He wondered when the next attack would come against his sector.

            Carefully he folded the crinkled letter, frowning. Would he make it off this mountain alive? He must, he told himself. He could not leave Talia thinking that he could ever in this lifetime or the next forget her…or that he would ever allow Bruce Wayne to possess her.


	11. Chapter 11

            “What are they waiting for?” Gami asked angrily. “They keep probing. Why do they not just come at us again?”

            “Because they have learned from their mistakes,” Bane said, squinting into the sun of an early June morning. “They will come again once they are ready, which should be any day now.”

            “Good,” Gami said, anxiously plucking at his patchy facial hair. “I have had enough of waiting.”

            Bane did not like the look of the young man. Six weeks atop this mountain had taken a physical as well as mental toll on Gami. It was true of all of them, but some showed it more than others. Enough to concern Bane. The Indians had delayed their offensive for more reasons than simply to prepare and reinforce their own troops. No, there would be officers among their high command—mountaineers—who knew the rigors of high altitude deployment and how it would wear down the Pakistani forces. They, like Bane, would also be cognizant of the tactics employed by the German Army in the Rhodope Mountains of Greece during World War II and those of the U.S. Army’s 10th Mountain Division in the Apennines of Italy. Fire and maneuver. Artillery and small, well-trained infantry units carried the day. No, there would be no more foolish frontal assaults. The Indians had grown stronger and become more educated, while their foes on the mountains grew weaker and more desperate. Bane had already lost five men to wounds inflicted by artillery fire. They had been carried off the mountain and would never return.

            To Barsad alone did Bane voice his concerns. When Barsad was on watch in one of the sangars, Bane would occasionally share the uncomfortable rat’s den with him for nearly half an hour when things on their front were quiet.

            “It’s no longer just a military operation,” Bane had said during the first week in June. “It has now become a political one.”

            “What do you mean?” Barsad peered for a long moment down the rocky slope before allowing himself to relax and sit next to Bane, their backs against the sangar’s fortifications.

            “Just received a dispatch. The Indians have released documents they claim they took off three Pak soldiers that prove Pakistan’s involvement.”

            “Well, shit. That’ll put holes in the Pak smokescreen about _mujahideen_ being the source of the incursion.”

            “Yes. It’s out in the open now. No matter how the Paks spin it, the international community won’t buy into any justification for crossing the LOC, especially when both countries involved have nukes. There will be universal condemnation. Then political pressure against the Pakistani government will prove as effective as military advances.”

            “So maybe this’ll all be over, and we’ll be off this mountain in a few days.”

            Bane grunted skeptically. “I think not. The Indians will want to prove their ability to defend their borders so this doesn’t happen again, and the Paks won’t simply slink back across the LOC unless someone lights a match between their toes. No, we are not out of this yet. Our friends down below will be coming at us again soon.”

            “Well,” Barsad said with a grin, patting his rifle, “we’ll be ready.”

#

            The attack came the next day, preceded by the most intense artillery barrage yet. Though Pakistani batteries miles to the rear sought to silence the Indian Bofors, they seemed to have little effect as round after round rained down upon Bane and his small force. While most of his men hugged the ground on the reverse slope, protected by the impact craters of earlier shellings, Bane moved all around the perimeter, checking on the handful of men in the forward positions and those on the flanks. He knew his fearlessness and unconcern for his own safety would serve to inspire his men, and they would need all the inspiration they could get as daylight waned.

            This time when the infantry advance came at sunset, the Indian artillery continued to fire, serving to initially suppress the firepower of Bane’s forces now deployed forward and along the flanks. Cloud cover brought night all the more quickly. Tracers and muzzle flashes provided the only light as the Indian forces climbed. Though these men were far more prepared for the task than before, Bane knew even the best mountaineers would need hours to scale the heights, their progress hampered by bullets, grenades, and mortars. He also knew the Indians would not attack the center of his line as in the past. With this in mind, Bane had strengthened his flanks, especially on the right where Barsad was deployed. The left flank was elevated, so Bane was confident the Indians would not spearhead the attack there, for such a strategy would subject them enfilade and interlocking fire should they gain the mountaintop. No, the main attack would hit the right flank where the mountain fell away in the form of two _nullahs_ —dry streambeds which provided cover for those ascending. Barsad and his men protected the upper reaches of the _nullahs_ and their corresponding ridgelines. Anti-personnel mines had been buried along these approaches as well, but they were widely dispersed; the initial supply covered the main approach up the eastern slope, deployed there before Bane had taken command. Bane would have been more judicious with their placement, and unfortunately he had been unable to requisition more to make up for his predecessor’s shortsightedness. The Indians had discovered the minefield the hard way during their last assault and thus had another reason to avoid a direct assault on the bunker.

            Gami remained in the bunker with the radio and the men manning a heavy machine gun while Bane continued to move about, keeping in close contact with each sector throughout the long, deafening night. He reminded his men to aim low, for firing downhill often made soldiers pull their shots high.

            As expected, close to dawn Barsad reported Indian forces in the _nullahs_ , but the rising sun halted their progress. The Indians went to ground, finding protection in impact craters, behind rocks, and in any sort of depression that could be found. And there they stayed throughout the day, just a couple of hundred meters from Bane’s lines, trading mortar fire and small arms fire with the defenders while artillery from both armies tried to dislodge and demoralize.

            Bane listened keenly to the reports over the radio, telling of Indian assaults against the various outposts along the LOC. He knew that this was all simply a matter of time now. The Pakistanis had allowed their foes too much time to prepare and improve their forces, from supply lines to increased artillery batteries to infantry better trained for high altitude fighting. Who could fault him if he ordered a withdrawal? Yet Bane had no such immediate plans. He refused to be the first to tuck tail and run back over the LOC. He would not willingly countenance such failure; he knew his men were determined to hold this position for as long as possible.

            Artillery continued to take its toll on Bane’s forces. By nightfall three of his men were dead, and four others were lying in the bunker, suffering from grievous wounds. And though his men had spent the day picking off every _jawan_ foolish enough to show himself, Bane knew they were easily outnumbered ten to one.

            Once night had settled in, the Indian advance resumed with fresh ferocity. They pressed on all three fronts, demonstrating against the left flank and the center in order to keep Bane’s men from reinforcing the critical right flank. The forces in the _nullahs_ crept ever upward regardless of the withering fire laid down by Barsad and the others. Where one _jawan_ fell, three others took his place.

            “I don’t know how much longer we can hold out,” Barsad’s strained voice crackled over Gami’s radio in the bunker. “They seem to be shifting some of their men farther to our right.”

            “They’re trying to turn our flank,” Bane replied with a knowing nod to himself.

            “They get behind us, this is all over. Can you reinforce us—?”

            The rest of Barsad’s question ended in noise and static, so loud that it pained Bane’s ear.

            “Barsad.” No response, just the rattle of gunfire, but not close gunfire, not Barsad’s gun. Bane’s pulse quickened. “Barsad, do you copy?” He listened intently, trying to delve through the chaotic cacophony hammering through the radio. He felt Gami’s worried gaze from next to him. “Barsad, do you copy?”

            Faint groans, curses, a scratching noise, then finally Barsad’s voice, hoarse and filled with pain, “Motherfuckers nearly took me apart with a mortar.”

            “You’re injured?”

            Barsad spat, a grimace plain in his reply: “My leg.”

            “How bad?”

            “It’s broken. Son of a bitch…” Bane could hear Barsad dragging himself across the ground, then another oath as he tumbled back into his protective hole. “Blew my sangar to shit, but I’m still in this fight. Motherfuckers; I’ll make ’em pay.”

            Bane grinned at the sound of Barsad’s renewed gunfire, then said, “I’ll try to send you a couple more men, but we’re stretched thin.”

            But even with Gami sent to the right flank, rifle in hand, radio left behind, Bane’s forces began to slowly unravel as others fell wounded or killed. He pulled more men from the center to reinforce the flanks, but their increased firepower was no match against such overwhelming odds. If they could hold out until morning, they might live to fight another day, but Bane knew such hopes were futile, and so he burned whatever intelligence there was in the bunker.

            The bunker’s heavy machine gun rattled off round after round, but targets on their front were scarce compared to the flanks. Bane gave his gunners a final pat on their shoulders and a stiff nod to bolster them before taking his own rifle into his hands and heading outside.

            Reaching the left flank, he found Nehru, wounded in the head, his face bathed in drying blood, still at his post, firing coolly and with precision from behind his rock cover. But his men were too few, stretched far apart, leaving gaps that would soon be exploited. Bane knew that many of them, like Nehru, had been wounded. As on the opposite flank, here the Indians kept shifting men farther and farther to Nehru’s left, hoping to get behind Bane’s lines.

            “We will fight to the last,” Nehru promised, his breathing labored.

            “There is no sense in that,” Bane said. “I would rather you live to fight another day, my friend. But I fear that will not be upon this mountain. They will be in our rear before morning.”

            Nehru’s lips pressed together in a long, thin line, and he squeezed off several more rounds at the darting shapes.

            “In fifteen minutes, begin to withdraw your men,” Bane said. “One by one. We’ll do the same all along the line. Rendezvous in Karkit.”

            Nehru gave him a regretful nod. Regretful, yes, but not resentful. Bane knew he understood the futility of the situation, though that did not make accepting defeat any easier, but he was a soldier, and soldiers follow orders. They had done the best they could with the limited resources they had been given. No forty men ever made could hold this mountain now.

            Bane moved down the line, relaying his orders personally, not chancing the enemy intercepting his orders over their com frequencies. But before he could make it to the right, a deafening flurry of gunfire and explosions lit up the night sky out on the farthest reaches of Nehru’s flank, and he knew the time for an orderly withdrawal had passed.

            Nehru’s voice crackled over his com: “Enemy in our rear. Repeat, enemy in—”

            Nothing more.

            Bane cursed, breaking into a run toward Barsad’s position. Heavy gunfire in that direction. No doubt the Indians had pressed the attack here at the same time as the other flank. He had no choice but to order an immediate withdrawal. If not, they would be cut off, if they were not already.

            As he reached the right, he saw his men begin to give ground firing, no panic, no rush. Disciplined, begrudging. Melting away, low and surly. He found Barsad still blazing away from his crumbled sangar. When Bane dropped next to him, Barsad flashed a knife at him, eyes blazing, teeth bared. Bane caught his wrist just in time.

            “It’s me, brother.”

            Barsad’s gaze cleared. “What the hell are you doing here? You gave the order to withdraw.”

            “I did.”

            “Then get the hell outta here!”

            Barsad seamlessly went back to discharging his weapon at the closing shadows, men’s shouts now ringing through the gunfire, triumphant, incited by their enemy’s fading shapes.

            “You’re coming with us.”

            “Not with this leg I’m not.” Blood blackened Barsad’s right leg, a makeshift tourniquet around his thigh, his pant leg shredded. “Now clear the fuck outta here. I’ll cover you.”

            But Bane had not come here to debate. He knew that the Indians climbing up this mountain were as aware as he of the five _jawans_ who had been captured and tortured to death last month by Pakistanis stationed north of here. Bane feared that if any of his men were taken, they would suffer retribution for those atrocities.

            His large hands grabbed Barsad like two indomitable cranes, lifting him onto his shoulders.

            Barsad, clinging to his rifle, still firing, shouted, “What the fuck are you doing? You’re gonna get us both killed!”

            Thankfully Barsad lost his hold on the Barrett, lightening Bane’s load considerably. With only his pistol now, Barsad continued to fire back at their ever-closing foe, swearing at Bane the whole time, demanding that he be left behind. Bane’s keen eyes searched the terrain ahead, looking for any dip or impact crater to help them avoid the rounds singing past his ears. His other men had slipped away down the reverse slope. Rapid muzzle flashes and tracer all along the summit told him that all of their defenses, from one end to the other, had been breached.

            A bullet slammed into the back of his thick support belt, slowed by his flak jacket. The blow caused him to pitch forward and stumble, nearly dropping Barsad. He staggered up from one knee, pushed on, his breath raspy and labored through the mask, the cursed mask… Barsad emptied his clip. Without thinking, Bane yanked one of his own free and passed it to his friend who resumed his frantic fire.

            Two more strides, and the world exploded. Night became day as Bane went airborne, deafened by the RPG. Barsad’s weight lifted from him. Without knowing it, Bane’s hands clawed the air in search of his friend, an instinct, nothing more. The light vanished as abruptly as it had come, and he fell through blackness, silent, grave blackness like that of the pit, falling, falling without end as he had twice fallen from the walls of the prison shaft so long ago…


	12. Chapter 12

            “Should we take it off him?”

            “How? I see no way to do so. It appears to be one piece.”

            “There must be a way.”

            “Is it a gas mask?”

            “Never seen anything like it before. Maybe the Captain will know.”

            “We need to revive him.”

            “Why?”

            “So he can walk down the mountain. I do not wish to carry him, do you?”

            “No. You are right; it would be like carrying a bull.”

            _My young bull_. In the darkness where Bane floated, Temujin’s voice contrasted with the Urdu being spoken around him. _Wake up, my young bull. Wake up before they compromise the mask_. But for a long moment Bane resisted returning to the mountain; he wanted to remain at rest. Regaining consciousness would mean _seeing_ his defeat. Hearing it was bad enough.

            Then…searching hands, going through his clothing, seeking intel or anything of value, of course. They would find none, so let them look all they wanted. But his breath caught when he felt fingers reaching into the pocket where he kept Talia’s photo…

            In a flash he slammed back into consciousness and grabbed the man’s hand, crushed it before he even had his eyes open. The soldier howled in agony. A rifle butt crashed against the side of Bane’s head, drove him back into insensibility. He struggled to remain awake, to safeguard Talia’s picture, but the pain in his head momentarily swelled beyond the reach of the mask’s opiates, and the blackness reclaimed him.

#

            “Can’t we just leave him behind?”

            “No. They will want to question him.”

            “Then get him on his feet. We aren’t going to carry this beast all the way down the mountain.”

            “You fool! He cannot walk with those shrapnel wounds. I have patched him up the best I can, but he needs a doctor before he is going to be back on his feet. Now quit stalling. Find others to help you, and be quick about it or I will report you to the Captain.”

            Bane felt the constriction of bandages around his thighs. There was little discomfort, though, thanks to the mask’s inhalant, and perhaps his captors had injected a painkiller as well. But how much of the mask’s supply remained in the canisters? Slowly his foggy brain searched backward. He had last replenished the crystals around eighteen hundred hours. But how long ago was that? As his concern grew, he reluctantly willed himself back from the void.

            “Ah, there…see? He is awake,” the medic said. “Now try not to bash his head again with your rifle. He is of no use to anyone if he cannot speak.”

            One of the others gestured to the mask. “Maybe he cannot speak at all.”

            The medic got to his feet and took a step back from his patient, as if to avoid an anticipated blow. Buckling his medical bag, the Indian switched to English, addressing Bane now as the other soldiers around them also backed out of Bane’s reach, weapons at the ready. “No more tricks from you. We have bound your hands since you have proven you still wish to harm us.”

            Bane said nothing as he sat up from his uncomfortable position on the floor of the damaged bunker. Early morning light streamed inward from several shell blasts that had crumbled parts of the ceiling and walls. The day’s cold clutched at him, having taken advantage of his immobility for so many hours. The next thought that penetrated the cobwebs in his mind was of Talia’s picture. With his hands restrained behind him, he could not check his pocket, nor would he give these _jawans_ the satisfaction of asking them about it. He would show no weakness of any kind to his weary captors.

            They were not alone in the bunker; a major stood near the unmanned heavy machine gun, reading a piece of paper in his hand and speaking over a radio while other soldiers came and went at his bidding.

            The medic slung his medical bag over his shoulder. “These men will take you down the mountain where your wounds will be treated more thoroughly.”

            “There was a man with me,” Bane croaked out through his dirt-dry mouth, the unnatural sound of his voice further unnerving a couple of the men, causing them to finger the triggers of their weapons. “I was carrying him when I was hit. He’s an American, wounded in the right leg. He was wearing a red scarf. What became of him?”

            “He has preceded you down the mountain,” the medic said.

            “Then he lives?”

            One of the soldiers grinned sarcastically. “For now.”

            Another prodded Bane’s mask with the muzzle of his rifle. “Why do you wear this? What is it for? Do you have chemical weapons?”

            Bane’s stare hardened upon the man whose companion took another retreating step. But the one who had spoken only broadened his dirty grin.

            “Big secret, is it?”

            “Enough talk,” the medic growled. “Get him on the litter and get him out of here.”

            But Bane glared at them all and awkwardly struggled to his feet. The others gaped in surprise at his ability to stand regardless of his injuries. The wounds, while not trifling, were not deep, Bane could tell. Between his own strength and determination as well as the mask’s analgesic he could tolerate them. His left arm was bandaged as well, and his whole body throbbed from the shock of the RPG, but the opiates made it all endurable. He enjoyed the amazed looks of his captors.

            “That is my pack,” Bane nodded toward the major, his opened pack at the officer’s feet. “I would like to take it with me.”

            “Nothing doing,” the surly one said. “Nothing on this mountain is yours anymore, merc.”

            Bane turned to the medic. “There is…medicine in it that I require.”

            The medic viewed him curiously for a moment before approaching the major and returning with the pack. Of course it had been rifled through, but Bane had been careful to leave nothing of value in it. Even Talia’s letters he had burned.

            “In that pocket,” Bane gestured with his chin.

            The medic removed the four small, unmarked hermetically sealed bottles that held the crystals. “What is this? I haven’t seen anything like it. Medicine, you say?”

            “He is a liar,” one of the soldiers said in Urdu.

            Speaking in the same language, surprising them once again, Bane said, “It is what I say it is.”

            “Medicine for what?” the soldier pressed.

            Bane only stared, his deeply rising and falling chest giving away his struggle for calm.

            “Maybe we should keep it,” the soldier said with a surreptitious glance toward the major. “Might be worth quite a bit.”

            The medic scowled at the man and said to Bane, “I will put these in your pockets if I have your word you won’t attempt to injure me as you did our comrade.” The medic’s subtle grin told Bane that he had no affection for the soldier whose fingers had been crushed.

            “You have my word, though judging from your companions I would guess the bottles will not remain with me once we leave the bunker.”

            “They will,” the medic said, eying the three soldiers. “I will make sure to check on you once I make it back to the aid station. If the medicine is not on your person, I will report them.”

            The darkest of the three swarthy infantryman muttered a curse at the medic who paid him no heed.

            “It would be better for your wounds if you make the descent on the litter.”

            Bane glowered at the soldiers. “I walked up this mountain; don’t see any reason why I cannot walk down it.” He glanced toward the door. “Shall we, gentlemen?”

#

            “Well, well, well,” Barsad grinned as he sat up on his cot. “Decided to join me after all, I see.”

            One of the soldiers escorting Bane into the medical tent impotently shoved him toward an empty cot beside Barsad’s. Bane gave the man a slow-turning, simmering stare before sitting, inwardly relieved to rest his trembling legs after the arduous descent of the mountain.

            “My friend’s bandages need to be changed,” Barsad said to Bane’s escorts, pointing to the fresh blood seeping through the dressings.

            The men simply laughed and tossed down Bane’s pack before two of them left the open-sided tent. One remained behind as guard.

            Their cots were at one end of the medical tent. The other wounded here appeared to be Indian soldiers, lying in two rows on either side. All who were awake stared with varying degrees of hatred, repulsion, and fear at Bane and his mask.

            “Well, ain’t this a fine kettle of fish?” Barsad remarked. “Damn fool; I told you to leave me on that mountain. No need for both of us to be guests of the Indian Army.”

            Ignoring Barsad’s admonishment, Bane nodded toward his shirt pocket. “Tell me if they took her picture.”

            Barsad hesitated long enough to give Bane a disbelieving look and shake of his head. “You’re in enemy hands and all you can think about is her picture?”

            Bane glared. “Just look.” Of course he had the strength and skill to free himself of his bindings but chose not to tip his hand in front of their guard.

            Barsad’s hands were not bound; with his broken leg, he plainly was not a flight risk. With another shake of his disheveled head, Barsad obeyed. And when he pulled out the photograph, Bane heaved an inward sigh. He nodded his thanks, and Barsad slipped the photo back into its protective pocket. Then he rummaged through Bane’s pack, frown lines furrowing his broad forehead.

            “Where’s your medicine? Did they take it?”

            “It’s in my jacket pockets.” With a grunt of discomfort, he drew his legs onto the cot.

            Barsad scowled at the guard who was now sitting on a cot across the aisle, tantalizingly smoking a cigarette. “Untie my friend’s hands.”

            “So he can break my neck?” the soldier sneered. “Nothing doing.”

            Barsad raised an eyebrow at Bane. “What did you do?”

            “Broke my naik’s hand, he did,” the _jawan_ complained.

            “Ah, making new friends again, were you, Bane?”

            Bane growled and lay on his side, facing Barsad and his fresh cast. “How is your leg?”

            Barsad’s attention returned to the guard’s cigarette. He breathed deeply to catch its scent before answering, “Clean break fortunately. No need for surgery, thank God. So it looks like I’ll be hanging around with you a bit longer.” He gestured to a Styrofoam cup on a squat stool between their cots. “When’s the last time you drank?”

            Bane shrugged one shoulder, hiding the fact that he was dehydrated.

            “Let me take off the mask so you can drink.”

            Their guard stirred with interest, holding the cigarette away from his lips.

            “More importantly,” Bane said quietly, “I need you to replenish the canisters.”

            Just as Barsad finished and slipped the bottle back into Bane’s pocket, a physician came down the row, escorted by one of the soldiers who had brought Bane: the dark, unpleasant one.

            “What do you make of it, Doctor?” the _jawan_ asked, pointing his rifle barrel at Bane’s mask.

            “My first concern is his wounds,” the physician said. “Make your report to your superior officer, and leave me to my work.”

            “Don’t worry, Naresh,” the guard grinned at the other soldier. “I will let you know all the details about our freakish friend.”

            The middle-aged physician gave the soldiers an irritated glance before pushing his drooping glasses farther up the bridge of his nose and turning back to Bane. In English, he said, “Please sit up.” As Bane did so, the doctor ordered, “Remove his bindings.”

            “Not a good idea,” the guard replied. “Crushed a man’s hand who tried to touch him. No doubt he will crush your head if he has a mind to.”

            The doctor raised a mocking eyebrow at the soldier. “I trust your rifle will prevent that.” Then to Bane, “Do I have your word that you will behave yourself while I treat you?”

            “You do,” Barsad answered for him, drawing a dark look from Bane. “Doesn’t he, Bane?”

            After a low, brief growl toward Barsad, Bane assured the physician of his compliance.

            With one hand upon the trigger of his weapon, the guard reluctantly freed Bane.

            As the doctor removed the bloody bandages then cleaned and dressed the wounds, he said nothing for some time. When he was nearly finished, his attention went to Bane’s mask. “Are there other…issues I need to treat you for?”

            “No.”

            “The men who brought you in said you are carrying medicine that you require. What is the medication for?”

            Bane did not answer, and his pointed glance at Barsad ensured that his friend would not expound either.

            The doctor’s eyes darkened. “ _You_ may either let me see it or I will ask our armed friend there to let me see it. Which shall it be?”

            Bane remained silent.

            “If I am to treat you properly, it is imperative that I know all medication you may be taking. I assure you that I will not steal it from you.”

            “The substance will be foreign to you,” Bane rumbled.

            “Then perhaps you will enlighten me.” The doctor held out his hand. When Bane did not comply, he added, “You may defy me, but the men who will interrogate you will not allow such defiance. Why add to any such unpleasantness?”

            “The bottles are in his jacket pocket,” the guard said.

            The doctor hesitated, studied Bane, measured him.

            “Give it to him,” the guard demanded, stepping closer with his rifle aimed. “Or I’ll take it. But _I_ won’t give it back.”

            “I will tell you what it is,” Bane said to the doctor while his gaze held the guard at bay. “But only you. And you will give me your word that you will tell no one else.”

            “I can give you my word, yes, but as I said others will be interrogating you, and rest assured they have little of my regard for your physical well-being.”

            “Of course.”

            “Very well. You have my word.” Then to the guard, “Wait outside.”

            “I would not trust him, Doctor.”

            “Are you disobeying a direct order from a superior officer?”

            The soldier scowled. “No, sir.”

            “Then step away. I trust your rifle can still drop this big fellow from more than three meters away, yes?”

            Grumbling, flush-faced, the guard at last obeyed.

            Muting his voice so it did not carry to any of the nearby wounded, Bane provided the barest of details about the crystals.

            “Then no doubt it is unnecessary for me to provide additional pain medication?” the doctor asked.

            “That is correct.”

            Barsad added, “As long as he’s allowed to keep his supply.”

            “I will allow it, of course. But, as I said, ultimately I will not be the only one responsible for you and your masked friend.” The doctor stood, showing his weariness in a small sigh. “Now let me get an IV started to provide you with some hydration. Once your new friends arrive you may find yourself deprived of such necessities.”


	13. Chapter 13

            An hour after the doctor finished with Bane, four soldiers came for him and Barsad. Though the doctor stridently protested, the _jawans_ took the prisoners to a nearby truck. Three of the soldiers climbed into the back with their bound and hooded captives while the fourth got into the cab. They drove for some thirty kilometers over jarring roads before reaching their destination. Once there, Bane was prodded from the truck at the end of a gun barrel. He could hear the other soldiers assisting Barsad, for his friend had not been given so much as a crutch to ambulate him.

            As Bane’s boots crunched across gravelly soil, he listened intently to his surroundings. Quiet. Not a military base of any kind. No voices except those of their guards. No sounds from vehicles. The distant, hollow clank of a small bell, followed by the gentle bleat of a goat. The throaty, low conversation of hens. The pungent odor of mule dung. Someplace remote. Mild temperatures; in a valley. He could still hear artillery fire, but the nearest batteries sounded quite distant.

            A door opened, and a guard gave him a shove. Bane cracked his forehead against the lintel. The guards laughed, the closest one speaking in English, “Mind your melon head or you might knock that freak mask of yours loose.”

            More laughter as Bane and Barsad stumbled inside the building. More animal smells. A barn of some sort. Hard-packed dirt beneath Bane’s feet. Someone kicked the back of his knee and pushed downward on his shoulder.

            “Sit.”

            Barsad grunted as he too dropped to the ground several feet across from Bane. Then their guards left the building. They did not go far, though; Bane could hear them just outside, conversing in Urdu now, smoking.

            “Fuck,” Barsad grumbled. “You’d think they’d share.” He shifted his weight. “How’s your head?”

            “The mask took the brunt of it.”

            Barsad spoke softer, “Think you can get your hands free?”

            “Of course. But it will do us no good while it’s still daylight.”

            “Us?” Barsad chuckled humorlessly. “Not us—you. In case you’ve forgotten, I have a broken leg. Won’t get ten meters without them nabbing me. So when you light out tonight, you do it on your own.”

            “Since when do I take orders from you?” Bane tried to sound gruff.

            Barsad gave a soft snort. “That’s what my brother used to always say.” Then his voice trailed off, and Bane sensed his friend’s mood change. Barsad said nothing more.

            An hour passed, an hour in which Barsad dozed off. Bane remained awake and alert, comfortable in the darkness of the hood. He guessed the barn to be made of dilapidated wood, for he could feel the slight circulation of air. After weeks atop the barren mountain, he had forgotten how many sounds there were in the world during summer. Besides the farm animals, he heard songbirds beyond these walls, as well as the rustling of wings in the rafters above him, the murmurings of pigeons. At one point he felt eyes upon him. A cat perhaps or maybe a rat. In time he dismissed all of these things and retreated into meditation, preparing himself mentally for whatever was to come.

#

            Bane awoke from a light veil of sleep, nudged by the sound of a vehicle pulling up to the barn. The engine shut off, and shortly thereafter the guards outside were addressed by newcomers. A moment later two men entered the barn. With no hesitation they approached and jerked off Bane’s and Barsad’s hoods. Bane did not flinch.

            “Shit,” Barsad said, jarred from mid-snore. He squinted in the filtered daylight trailing between the slats of the walls.

            The two Indian men wore no uniforms, no insignias, only nondescript clothes and side arms. Not yet middle-aged, their faces, however, revealed that they had already seen more than most men beyond their years. Old hands at this business. Agents of India’s Intelligence Bureau, Bane surmised.

            “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” the older of the two said in English with a pleasant white smile, made all the whiter by his deep brown complexion and nearly black eyes.

            One of the guards entered, carrying a rickety chair and a camp stool. He set them down and retreated, closing the door behind him.

            “Mr. Bane and Mr. Barsad. Do I have that right?” the agent asked.

            Neither responded. Barsad yawned and appeared eager to resume his nap, though Bane knew in truth his friend was very much awake.

            “My name is Agent Verma. My associate is—”

            “Did you say Vermin?” Barsad quipped, deadpan.

            Verma scowled. “My associate is Agent Singh.”

            Singh, standing closest to Barsad, gave the American a slow look of barely veiled disdain.

            “I’m sure there’s no need for me to explain why we are here,” Verma continued, sweeping a hand around the dusty, empty barn. “Or why you are here. I’m hoping you gentlemen will make this easy on all of us and answer our questions directly. After all, it’s plain neither of you has any…ethnic ties to this conflict that our Pakistani brothers have so foolishly started.”

            Verma casually brought the wooden chair closer to Bane and sat down, lacing his fingers in front of him, his body language, like Barsad’s, deceptively relaxed.

            “Would either of you gentleman like to volunteer information? We always look favorably upon those who do. Saves us a lot of trouble, a lot of…messiness. After all, look how well you have been treated. Both of you have received sufficient medical care for your injuries; food, water, yes?”

            “What’s there to say?” Barsad smiled indulgently. “We’re just two mercenaries. Make us a better offer than the Paks, and we’re all yours.”

            “Just mercenaries?” Verma exchanged a calculated look with his partner, and they chuckled together. Then his attention returned to Bane. “Perhaps your friend is just a mercenary, but you, Mr. Bane, are something more, aren’t you? To start with, our military sources confirm that you commanded the forces atop the mountain west of Zyamthang.”

            Bane stared at the agent, his earlier meditation leaving him calm yet aware.

            “Why would the Paks give command of anything to a mercenary, especially a foreign one?”

            “Maybe,” Singh spoke up, “it wasn’t the Paks who gave you command. Not the Pak military, I mean.”

            “Unfortunately,” Verma continued, “all of your men eluded us atop the mountain. Even took the wounded. So we have no one to question but you. Your dead, though, told us a story. They were not in uniform. Well, not in the true sense of the word.”

            Singh settled upon the camp stool between Verma and Barsad. “The Paks have tried to make us and the rest of the world think this incursion was initiated by _mujahideen_ and Kashmiri militants from the other side of the LOC, seeking to reclaim their ancestral lands. We have proof otherwise, proof we have shared with the international community.”

            “So,” Bane said, “if you have such proof, then why concern yourself with it any longer?”

            “Other countries often need multiple sources of verification before they will take the risk of becoming even diplomatically involved in a conflict between two nations,” Verma replied. “If you were to offer such verification—that the Pakistani military, not ethnic militants—initiated this conflict, then we would have little need to detain you further.”

            Bane felt Barsad’s glance but continued to look only at Verma. Their orders had always been to deny any direct connection to the Pakistani military. Bane knew that the tenuous position he and the Kashmiri militants had held atop the mountain had never been considered worth reinforcing, and that no doubt the Paks had expected the post to fall before now, readily supplying the enemy with prisoners whose very appearance would lend credence to the claim that the conflict was directly linked to Kashmir’s decades-long struggle over the LOC.

            “I am a soldier,” Bane said. “What do I care about politics?”

            “A soldier?” Singh barked a derisive laugh. “There is a vast difference between a soldier and a mercenary.”

            “No,” Verma wagged a finger at his companion, “as I said, Bane is more than a mercenary.” His eyes took on a gleam, like a hound who had, until now, only smelled the fox, but who at last had his victim in sight. His brown finger worked a slow circle in the air in front of Bane’s mask. “A man with such a unique…profile does not go unnoticed in my circles. No, this is not the first time you have been picked up on our radar, so to speak. But, I must say, I never expected you to turn up here, fighting in a war that is not of your own making, working for money like any common soldier of fortune…like your American friend over there.”

            Bane’s voice rang with a deadly iciness that seemed to kill the barn’s warmth: “It will serve you well to remember that he _is_ an American. And if you want his country’s condemnation of Pakistan’s alleged incursion, then I would recommend he remains unharmed. No doubt President Clinton would be very displeased if he learned one of his citizens was tortured by the IB.”

            “Torture?” Verma said with mock indignation. “We would never think of such a thing for our esteemed American guest, would we, Singh?”

            Singh wore a smirk. “Never.”

            “But you, my masked friend, who would be concerned with your welfare? Hmm?”

            Moving with seeming nonchalance, Verma reached inside Bane’s jacket, right to the pocket the guards had no doubt told him about. Bane steeled himself against any physical reaction as the agent slowly, confidently withdrew Talia’s photo. Bane felt Barsad’s concerned gaze upon him, but he kept his focus on Verma.

            “Would she be concerned?” the agent continued. He turned the photo away from Bane, held it out for Singh to peruse. Singh nodded his approval, that smug look still in his eyes, a look that took on new meaning now, causing Bane’s fingers to twitch behind his back. Then Verma turned the picture toward Bane again. “She is young. Young enough to be your daughter? Hmm. Difficult to say for sure, but she has none of your features. Well, at least the ones I can see. How old is she?”

            Bane stared at the man, avoiding Talia’s face, focused only upon his own breathing, keeping it slow and calm so it would not rattle through the mask and betray his rage.

            “Look at her, Bane. Don’t you want to look at her?” Verma momentarily turned the picture back to himself to study. “Hmm. There’s a hint of a minx about her, the way she’s looking at the camera. So not a relative. But what else could she be? Surely not a lover.”

            Singh laughed. “Not a pretty thing like that. Beauty and the beast exists only in Hollywood, my friend. Or is she someone you only dream to fuck?”

            “Well, no matter,” Verma said, his attention glued now to Bane in search of a hint of reaction as he tucked the picture inside his own jacket. “We’ll see what we can find out about her since you are reluctant to share.” His complacent smile grated upon Bane. “Now where were we? Oh, yes. Agent Singh and I would greatly appreciate it if you were to share your knowledge of the Pakistani forces arrayed along the LOC. But I assume you are as reluctant to divulge that information as you are about this sweet little thing.” His hand patted the pocket where he had tucked Talia’s photo. “So we’ll come back to that later, shall we? When you are more…pliable, yes?” The irritating sly smile came again. “There is something else you carry on your person, I understand. Something indispensable to you, am I right?”

            Verma casually searched through Bane’s pockets until he had removed each of the opiate bottles. Bane could feel Barsad’s alarm, but he refused to allow it to infect him.

            “I’m assuming whatever is in these bottles—and we will discover what it is precisely—has something to do with your unique fashion statement. But of course you will not tell us, will you?” He raised his thick, dark eyebrows in question at Bane, as if he really did think Bane might indulge him. “No? Very well then.” Verma tucked each of the bottles into his pockets and stood. “How long will it take, Bane? You know we are patient men, Singh and I, though I suspect you are, too.” Verma looked at Barsad whose flushed face revealed a barely contained outburst. “Your friend, though, I suspect will not prove as patient as the three of us.” He moved to stand in front of Barsad, a small grin on his lips. “Americans: impatient perhaps, but they tend to be loyal to their causes.”

            Verma tossed a glinting glance over his shoulder at Bane before he patted his jacket, causing the hidden pill bottles to clink gently against each other. Then he nodded to Singh, and the two agents left the barn.


	14. Chapter 14

            When night arrived, the Indian guards—only two now—shared the barn with Bane and Barsad, one remaining awake with his gun trained on the prisoners while the other slept. They provided food and water to Barsad but offered Bane neither.

            “Unless you want to tell us how to get that mask off you,” one tempted, “your hunger and thirst will only get worse. But we are not freeing your hands so _you_ can remove it.”

            Bane had no plans to show anyone the clever release mechanism that Malik had designed, concealed within the right canister. Only Barsad knew of it. He could bear the hunger that had already set in. Thirst, while more trying, could be endured as well, though not as long. Even before his training with the League of Shadows, he had been well accustomed to such deprivations while in prison.

            His plans of shedding his bonds and slipping away into the night had been foiled by the guards’ wise decision to sleep inside. He remained awake as long as he could, hoping the _jawan_ on watch would drift off so he could then break his bonds and kill them where they lay, but on this first night the guards were alert. Yet Bane knew the longer they stayed here, the more fatigued and careless the soldiers would become; unless, of course, they were rotated with fresh troops. And though Bane had eternal patience for such things, the fact remained that when the drug in the canisters was exhausted, he could very well be too incapacitated to effectively free himself and disable the guards. Barsad would be his only hope at that point, and Bane avoided relying on anyone but himself, not even Barsad.

            Barsad had hinted at the idea of giving the IB agents what they wanted, but he never would come right out and say as much; he did not want to appear weak. Bane knew, though, that Barsad’s motivation was not for his own well-being but instead for that of his companion once the opiate wore off. The agent had been correct about Barsad’s capacity for loyalty, a loyalty no doubt greatly strengthened by Bane forfeiting his own freedom to try to get him off that mountain and elude capture. Barsad had no need to again voice his regret about Bane putting himself in such a situation for his sake; the remorse was easy enough to see in the American’s hooded eyes.

            The two IB agents returned in the morning, bringing with them a piping hot breakfast that set Bane’s stomach screaming with want. But he allowed none of his desire to show and did his best to conceal his excessive swallowing due to increased salivation, though that had been diminished by growing dehydration.

            When Singh offered the food to Barsad, Barsad scowled at him. “Untie Bane and let him eat. Then I’ll eat.”

            Singh straightened and regarded the two bowls in his hands then shrugged. “You know how this works, my friend. You must first give us something useful before we will help your commander.”

            Barsad glanced at Bane but received nothing except a flat stare in return, demanding that he remain steadfast.

            “No?” Verma cocked his head. He sighed and sat in the dilapidated chair close to Bane. He began to eat Bane’s breakfast, savoring every bite. “What a shame. It’s rather good.”

            Singh held one of the bowls toward Barsad again. “Are you sure? There’s really no need for you to suffer like your friend.”

            “Eat, Barsad,” Bane ordered.

            Barsad frowned and started to say something but caught the lift of Bane’s eyebrow and allowed the words to die. Bane’s stare conveyed the importance of one of them remaining physically strong if they hoped to get out of this. As usual Barsad appeared to understand the silent communication; it was a quality Bane had noticed early on in their relationship, a quality that made Barsad indispensable as a lieutenant.

            “Hard to eat with my hands tied behind my back,” Barsad said at last.

            Singh set the food down near Barsad, and Verma drew his Glock and aimed it at Bane, saying, “No tricks or your masked friend loses a kneecap…or worse.”

            The two agents remained until Barsad had eaten, casually talking, throwing occasional questions at their prisoners but more intent upon slowly enjoying their meal in front of Bane.

            “It would appear your drug must have a lasting effect,” Verma said. “An interesting blend of opiates, our analysis showed, though the process to crystalize it in such a concentrated form remains a bit of a mystery. But no matter. As I said, we have nothing but time. And if we get impatient, I’m sure we can find a way to pry that mask off you and deprive you more quickly of what drugs remain in it. And to see what you are hiding under there. That is what the drug is for, yes? A painkilling inhalant? It’s certainly not in a form that you can consume orally.” He wiped his mouth with the back of one hand. “Another mystery is your photograph of the girl. But we know this much: Talia Ducard attends Le Rosey, the world’s most prestigious private school, though unfortunately she is not there now in the summer. We could not, however, find out anything more, though no doubt in time we will. Someone has been very careful about keeping her—or themselves—safe. So the longer you draw out this ordeal, my friend, the more time you give us to find her.”

            No amount of self-control could stop Bane from responding, his voice gravelly and strained, “If you try to touch her, if you try to so much as breathe in her presence, you will find yourself and everyone you hold dear destroyed…or worse.” Bane thought of the pit prison, a perfect end for someone like Verma. If only he possessed such a place, a place to bury anyone who posed a threat to himself or Talia. Perhaps one day he would.

            Verma only chuckled and continued eating.

            After the agents left, Bane and Barsad, bound once again, spent much of the day sleeping under the watchful eyes of one of their guards. Until then Bane had not realized just how taxing his weeks atop the mountain had been upon his body. When awake, Bane planned various ways to escape, but for any of his plans to succeed, they would need the cover of night…and he would require at least one dose of his drugs to make it on foot beyond Indian lines.

            By evening his mask gave its last sustaining breath of analgesic, a soft sigh from the canisters that awoke him from a doze. Across from him, Barsad was awake, studying him with deep concern.

            “This is crazy,” Barsad said. “Let’s just give them what they want.”

            “You believe they will let us go if we betray Nehru and the rest of our brothers who suffered so much on that mountain?”

            Barsad frowned. “I don’t know about that. But I do know _you_ are going to be suffering. You need those drugs. And it’s not just going to be the pain from your injuries, you know; you’ll start to suffer withdrawal as well.”

            “Of course.”

            “Jesus, Bane—”

            “We will get out of this…and with our honor intact.”

            In frustration, Barsad glanced toward the guard who sat near the door, listening with interest. Barsad muttered, “Honor,” to himself and seemed about to scoff before Bane caught his eye. Instead Barsad simply shook his head. No doubt he found little honor in having to sit in one’s own piss.

            The pain came with stunning swiftness. After years of the drug holding it at bay, Bane had almost forgotten its power. Few things in life could dominate him, physically or mentally, but now he remembered all too well his one true enemy. As the waves flowed over him, building as a sea builds in a growing storm, he closed his eyes and tried to control it, to find a way to deny it. Sweat rose up to drench him, pouring down his forehead, causing his clothes to stick to him and stifle him even more. A groan fought for release, pressed against what was left of his lips, but somehow he managed to repel it, at least for now.

            With the agony came the memories, and he could again feel the scratching, clawing, pounding hands of countless prisoners in the pit, crushing him, shredding him, making him pay for concealing Talia’s gender from them, for holding them back as the child fled to the shaft wall and began her climb. A rage further fueled by years of deprivation and misery, a hatred of themselves and each other, all channeled against one man until they finally left him for dead.

            Then had come Doctor Assad’s fumbling attempts to repair that which could not be repaired, especially in such a primitive environment and at the shaking hands of a morphine-addicted physician. Morphine had been Assad’s escape, just as it had eventually become Bane’s. But Assad sought not to escape physical torment; instead he had used the drug as a way to forget his unforgivable mistake of failing to lock Melisande’s cell door one day after examining Talia. Abruptly called away by other inmates for what appeared to be a medical emergency elsewhere in the prison, Assad had no idea that the emergency was a mere ruse. He gotten only a short distance down the corridor before inmates had pushed their way into Melisande’s cell. In an effort to defend her mother, Talia had attacked them with a knife that Bane had given her. He could still see his little _habibati_ fiercely wielding the blade, burying it in the back of one man, a man who would have killed her if not for Bane sweeping her up and carrying her away from the horrific frenzy of violence and screams from Melisande.

            He thought of Talia now as he had thought of her when he had lain broken and defeated after her escape, wishing for her to be beside him, comforting him, caressing him as she had done when he had fallen from the shaft and injured his spine. No, he told himself, he should not want her to see him this way. He wanted her to remember him as her protector, strong and whole. How he missed her. Perhaps he would visit her when this was over. He used the idea as a balm against the surging pain, allowing himself to believe it, that he would break his own vow to stay away from her and would instead hold her in his arms again. Then all of this would be nothing more than another nightmarish memory.

#

            “So,” Verma drew out the word with satisfaction, “here we are at last.”

            Bane heard the now-familiar creak of the wooden chair and cracked his eyelids open to see Verma sitting near him once again, that annoying smile on his thin lips. Bane blinked to combat the stickiness of his eyes. The pain and the beginning of withdrawal symptoms caused his eyes to shed what little moisture remained in them. His skin was clammy with sweat, but he knew as his dehydration worsened, the sweat would dry up and his body would overheat. The muscles in his legs had already begun to cramp and ache, another symptom of both withdrawal and dehydration.

            Verma and Singh snacked on dried apricots (Bane remembered the fragrance of the white flowers on the apricot trees in April near Kargil). Involuntarily Bane’s jaw moved as if he were eating the fruit.

            “Would you like some?” Verma held out his hand. “No? Not convinced to help us yet? Well,” he popped another piece of apricot into his mouth and chewed noisily, “perhaps a night of this,” he gestured to Bane’s pain-wracked form sitting against a stall door, “will drive some sense into that thick skull of yours.”

            Singh helped Barsad drink from a plastic bottle, but Barsad did not take more than one gulp, his guilty, remorseful gaze dropping away from Bane afterward.

            “You can end your friend’s suffering, you know,” Singh gently said to Barsad, as if to avoid Bane hearing. “The withdrawal symptoms will worsen. Nausea, diarrhea, just to name a couple. Nasty business. Aspiration could kill him with that mask on, to say nothing of dehydration. How long has he gone without fluids now?”

            Barsad sought Bane’s eyes, silently pleading with him to give the agents what they wanted. This was not their war, his gaze said. Why die for countries that were not their own? _But_ , Bane silently replied, _I have no country_.

            “Very well,” Verma said with his usual sigh of tolerance, standing and popping the last of the apricots into his mouth. “I’ll leave you with something to think about.” Reaching into a pocket, he withdrew one of the bottles that contained Bane’s crystals. Inside, all that remained were two. Verma shook the bottle and held it up for both Barsad and Bane to see. “Going fast, gentlemen. I suggest you change your minds soon. And just in case you do…” He drew his chair away from Bane, halfway between him and the guards, and set the bottle on it. Then he placed his water bottle beside the pill bottle after giving it a tantalizing shake as well. “Have a good night, gentlemen.”

#

            Bane could not sleep. The torturous pain blended with insomnia, another early symptom of withdrawal. Anxiety and agitation made him want to crawl out of his skin. His head pounded, and his muscle aches had worsened and spread to all of his extremities. His parched and swollen tongue added to the labored rattle of his breath through the mask. The effort to simply stay upright had been abandoned, and he lay with his protesting back against the stall, his neck at an awkward angle. Even the light cast by the guards’ lantern pained his eyes, so he kept them closed as much as possible. When he did open them, he found Barsad always awake, staring at him with a mixture of fear, worry, and anger.

            “One of us should sleep, brother,” Bane croaked out. “Save your strength.”

            “How the hell am I supposed to sleep, waiting for you to die over there? And for what? C’mon, Bane, enough is enough. Think of…think of Talia if you can’t think of yourself. Don’t you want to see her again?”

            Bane closed his eyes, saw her smiling, warm and safe in the south of France. Did she somehow sense his pain? He hoped not; he could never bear the thought of being responsible for hurting her in any way.

            This night…this night would be intolerable. He needed a distraction…

            “Tell me, John,” he said, his voice cracking, his eyes remaining shut, “tell me what became of your brother.”


	15. Chapter 15

            Bane’s inquiry about his brother obviously took Barsad by surprise, for he did not immediately respond, and in the ensuing silence, a mask of sorrow fell across his bearded face. Bane hoped that his search for a distraction from his own physical suffering would keep Barsad from dismissing the subject of his brother as he had every time before. Their gazes met across the dim space. Bane gave a slight nod of encouragement then closed his eyes, hoping this would make it easier for Barsad to tell his story and thus disengage them both from their torment.

            “Jimmy was older than me,” Barsad finally began, his voice so quiet that Bane had to strain to hear through the buzzing in his ears and his harsh breathing. “He always looked out for me. I idolized him. We did everything together growing up—fishing, hunting, hiking; kept us away from home, away from our dad. Jimmy dropped out of high school after his freshman year to get a job, to help with the bills since Pop was drunk and unemployed more than he was sober and working.” Barsad’s narrative drifted away, as if he thought Bane had fallen asleep, but when Bane opened his eyes, Barsad frowned and continued. “I thought my father would be grateful for Jimmy bringing home a paycheck, but I think instead it pissed him off. He thought Jimmy was showing him up, trying to be the man of the house, which he was really, and that pissed him off, too.”

            When Bane heard their guard clear his throat, he wondered if the soldier was paying attention to Barsad’s story. The other guard lay snoring, though the noise was soft enough not to interfere with Bane hearing Barsad.

            “Pop had a bad temper. He used to beat the shit out of us now and then, but once Jimmy grew taller and bigger Pop left him alone. That’s when he started hitting on Ma. Jimmy told me he was gonna put a stop to it. Ma told him to stay out of it; I knew she was afraid Jimmy would kill Pop and then end up in jail, and where would that leave her and me? She didn’t want me to have to quit school, too, and work in the mines. But I wasn’t smart in school like Jimmy was. My skills were in shooting.”

            Barsad’s voice trailed away, and Bane saw the memories consume his friend. The lantern light cast the far side of his face into shadow. Barsad drew his knees toward his chest before continuing.

            “One day when I was coming back from hunting up in the hills, I could hear them all shouting from inside the house. I climbed one of the old trees in our backyard. From there I could see through the back window. Jimmy was standing between Ma and Pop. Ma had blood all over her face and the front of her clothes.” He paused, swallowed hard. “I wasn’t really thinking straight, I suppose. Something made me aim my gun at Pop. I thought, ‘If he hits either one of them, I’m gonna drop him, so help me God.’” Barsad nodded to himself. “And then he took a swing at Jimmy. I pulled the trigger, but…” He glanced at Bane, no doubt hoping he were asleep. Then he stared instead at his knees. “Just then the limb I was on gave way and spoiled my shot. Instead of hitting my dad, the bullet hit Jimmy. Right in the head. Killed him instantly.”

            In an unexpected flash, Bane saw Temujin’s dead body in that Shanghai street, then again when he had laid his friend to rest near the village where he had lived with his wife. The emotions from those moments returned to crush Bane, and he knew Barsad felt the same devastating pain and helplessness, the guilt, as he sat in miserable silence across from him. Moisture glistened in Barsad’s eyes, and he kept his gaze away from Bane.

            “I’m sorry,” Bane said.

            Barsad sniffed once, tried to recover with a manufactured, cocky grin but the effort fell sadly short, and his, “Yeah,” came choked and low. He cleared his throat. “Since that day I’ve never missed anything I’ve aimed at. I promised Jimmy I wouldn’t; at his funeral, I mean. He used to always tease me about how good I was. Fucking tree branch…” His voice died away, and he shook his head.

            Bane asked nothing more.

#

            The night wore on, and Bane drifted somewhere between consciousness, insensibility, and sleep. Sometimes he was back in prison. Other times he was at the monastery, playing chess with Akar; a young man now, not the mere boy he had been when Bane first arrived there. When Bane had been excommunicated, Akar had wanted to leave with him, outraged over Rā’s al Ghūl’s decision. But Bane had convinced the young Bhutanese to remain behind, tasking him with watching out for Talia whenever she visited the mountain complex. Considering how Talia had now forsaken her father, perhaps he should have allowed Akar to come with him after all. But a youngster with only one arm and one eye was better off at the monastery, Bane told himself.

            Other times—and most commonly—in his drifting unrest Bane saw himself with Talia, sometimes when she was just a baby in his arms, other times as a young woman, coming to him as she had come to him that last night at the monastery, folding herself, naked and warm, into his embrace. In one vision, her features changed before him, and he found Melisande in his arms, her cherished blanket wrapped about them.

            “Go fetch your master.”

            Barsad’s odd demand stirred Bane from his emotional wanderings, pulled him rudely back to the barn, to the unbearable pain. He heard someone groaning, low and animal-like. Then he realized the sounds emanated from his own mouth.

            “Why?” one of the guards answered Barsad.

            “I wanna end this. Go tell ’em I’ll give ’em what they want.”

            Bane’s eyes shot open, and he found Barsad staring back at him. He expected to see apology in his friend’s expression but found instead a pointed look.

            “No,” Bane managed to choke out.

            When the guard hesitated, Barsad barked at him, “Go! Hurry up before I change my mind.”

            The soldier woke his companion then headed out of the barn. The one remaining swore and rubbed at his bleary eyes. Bane could see he was not fully awake and would in fact return to slumber in a moment. Still Barsad stared across at Bane. And then Bane realized the opportunity Barsad had given them, one small window of hope.

            Rallying every ounce of strength in his formidable body, Bane began to gag and retch, his body contorting. Feigning panic, he scraped the mask against the ground as if attempting to dislodge it.

            As quickly as he could, Barsad struggled to his feet, hands still bound behind his back, all the while shouting out to the guard. “He’s choking! He’s choking, God damn it, can’t you see? He’s vomiting. We’ve got to get the mask off!” He hopped on his one good leg to Bane’s side, dropped awkwardly beside him, eyes frantic, arms fighting to break free of the zipcuffs.

            The befuddled guard had drawn near but stood indecisively, rifle in hand, staring at Bane’s writhing struggle.

            “For God’s sake, let me help him,” Barsad snarled. “Cut me loose. I know how to get his mask off.”

            Bane was unsure how much longer he could continue his act, for every movement he made only increased his agony.

            “He’s going to aspirate,” Barsad said. “Don’t you understand?”

            The guard’s confused gaze flicked toward the door, as if he considered going for help or was simply hoping the others would arrive soon.

            “We can’t wait!” Barsad snapped. “Cut me loose. I can help him.”

            With a frustrated oath, the guard freed Barsad from his bindings.

            “Help me sit him up,” Barsad ordered as he reached for Bane. “Hold him up while I take the mask off.”

            Bane kept himself as limp as possible, eyes closed, still emitting choking noises but lessening them as though he were close to unconsciousness. He felt the guard’s grip on his shoulders, heard him grunt with effort to pull him upright, their bodies close now, the soldier’s hands free of weapons. Calling on his last reserve of strength, Bane’s powerful arms flexed, and in one movement he broke his bindings and grabbed the guard by the neck. The man had no time to even cry out, his attempt cut short by the crushing force of Bane’s grip. Before his lifeless body struck the ground, Barsad had the guard’s rifle in hand and yanked the pistol free of its holster for Bane. Supporting one another, they were both able to stand. Swiping the pill bottle off the nearby chair, Barsad tossed the crystals to Bane.

            “No time,” Bane gasped out. “Cover the door.”

            Barsad ignored the order long enough to help Bane inside the stall for protection, then he hobbled across the barn to take cover in another stall. With practiced speed, Bane’s shaking fingers opened one of the canisters at the back of his mask and inserted a crystal. It would have to be enough for now. Voices approached the barn. The mask gave a gentle hiss as the drug began to circulate. Bane breathed deeply, found enough strength to crouch, the wounds in his thighs protesting. He aimed the pistol over the top of the stall toward the door. As each second passed, his head began to clear, the worst of the torment easing.

            The second guard stepped through the door. Bane and Barsad held their fire long enough for the agents, close on the soldier’s heels, to enter as well. All three staggered to a halt when they saw the prisoners gone and the _jawan_ dead. Barsad’s first shot dropped the soldier; Bane’s took out Singh. Verma spun for the door, firing as he went, but the spray of bullets from Barsad’s automatic weapon caught him. Staggering, falling, struggling up with several wounds, Verma fell back into the darkness outside, still firing.

            Bane stumbled out of the stall, pausing long enough to snatch up the first guard’s knife and shove it into his belt. Barsad struggled on one leg out of the other stall, using whatever was in reach to help propel him out of the barn after Verma. By the time Bane reached the door, Barsad stood above Verma, who lay on the ground several feet from a battered, nondescript SUV, his weapon discarded, bloody but alive.

            “Cover the house,” Bane said, jerking his chin in the direction of the small, primitive shelter. “Make sure no one comes out.”

            Barsad winced as he hobbled over to the SUV, which sat between them and the house. Using the vehicle both as cover and to steady his rifle, Barsad watched for anyone coming through the door or looking out the single window. From inside, they heard a woman’s frightened voice, calling out in Urdu perhaps to her children.

            There was no fear on Verma’s face as Bane searched his clothing. In the fall of weak lantern light through the barn door, Verma lay without moving, his shallow breathing ragged and bubbling with blood, his stare never leaving Bane. The first thing Bane found were the keys to the SUV. He pocketed them. Then he recovered the second pill bottle with the crystals, most of them missing.

            “Where’s the photo?”

            Verma coughed and weakly grinned bloody teeth. “What does it matter? My people already have a copy of it.”

            Bane’s free hand grabbed the front of Verma’s jacket to lift him off the ground then slam him back down. “Where is it?”

            “With Singh.”

            Bane put the bottle in one of his pockets. The few minutes of exertion, even with the drug now coursing through him, had taxed Bane, and he thought of the water bottle on the chair in the barn. Hunger and thirst made him lightheaded.

            “Someone like you,” Verma struggled to speak, “can’t hide. You will be found and brought to justice.”

            “Justice,” Bane scoffed. “I’ll show you _true_ justice.” With that he knelt atop Verma, his right shin across the agent’s neck, all of his weight directed there. Verma’s hands fruitlessly clawed at Bane, trying to draw his pistol arm downward to no avail, eyes bulging, bloody froth foaming at the corners of his mouth. Bane did not look away from the man’s hate-filled eyes as life slowly trickled away.

            Bane tossed the SUV keys to Barsad. “Start it up. I’m right behind you.” With that, he went to Singh’s body, found Talia’s picture and returned it to its rightful place in his breast pocket. Then he took Singh’s pistol and the second guard’s weapons as well as the water bottles in the barn before hurrying to the SUV. They had only a couple of hours to make it over the Line of Control before sunrise.

            As soon as Bane was in the passenger seat, Barsad hit the gas. Because of his casted leg, he had to sit at an awkward angle.

            “I should drive,” Bane said.

            “The first thing you should do is drink and look for something to eat in here.”

            “Very well. Then I will drive.”

            Bane dreaded removing the mask, for he had no injectable morphine to combat the agony that would return without the mask; those supplies had been raided by the Indians back on the mountain, probably used for their own wounded. But the lure of water outweighed his fear of the pain. As quickly as he could, he downed two bottles of water—more than he knew he should after so long without it—then replaced the mask, adding a crystal to the second canister. Then he sat back, eyes closed, allowing both the water and the drug to ease his anguish.

            The road they traveled was unpaved and jolting. Remembering the directions traversed during their journey to the farm, they struck out north. If his calculations were correct, Bane expected this road to connect with the National Highway somewhere east of Kargil. From Kargil, they would head west through the mountains to Karkit and safety. If necessary, they would abandon the truck and travel on foot, but Bane hoped to avoid subjecting Barsad to such hardship with his broken leg, nor did he relish the thought of carrying his friend any distance, not in his own compromised condition.

            “I’ll drive now,” Bane said after the first couple of miles.

            “No time to stop,” Barsad said, hands tight upon the wheel, gaze glued to the night ahead, split by their headlights. “Besides, I’ve gotten more sleep than you.”

            There was little room to argue over Barsad’s valid points. So for a long moment Bane fell silent, closing his eyes to center himself again after their ordeal, to take in another deep draught of the drug.

            “Were you truly going to cooperate with them?” Bane asked at last, eyes still closed.

            Barsad hesitated. “Well, I’d like to say no and that I knew you would put on a show once the other guard left, but…” He sighed. “Yes, I was going to.”

            “Why?”

            “For God’s sake, you know why. Jesus. I couldn’t keep sitting there, feeding my face and making small talk with those bastards while you were letting them torture you. There comes a time when you have to weigh what you’re giving up with what you’ll get in return.”

            Bane nodded, opening his eyes to stare into the night. “But what was happening to me was my choice, brother. It had nothing to do with you.”

            “C’mon, Bane. Are you serious, man? Fuck. What would you have done if you were me?”

            “I would not have interfered.”

            “Really? Is that what you were doing back on that mountain when you came back for me and got yourself captured—not interfering?” Barsad scoffed and shook his head. “You’re full of shit, you know that?”

            Bane did not look at him when he continued, “If you wish to stay with me, what happened back in that barn must never happen again. The mission must always come before any man, even if that man is you or me. Do you understand?”

            “Who says I’m going to stay with you? Maybe once we get back across the LOC, I’ll ditch your ass and head out on my own. Do things _my_ way.”

            Sensing the true emotions behind Barsad’s threat, Bane said, “You are mistaken if you think I’m not grateful for what you did for me. But you must also understand that I expect anyone who is subordinate to me to obey my orders, no matter what the cost.” He paused for effect. “Of course you are free to choose your own path, brother,” he lingered over this last word, “but I hope you will continue to serve with me.”

            “No matter the cost? Well, I wonder what Talia would say about that, about you lying there in that barn, groaning in agony.”

            “She would understand.”

            “A girl would understand that?”

            “She is no ordinary girl. She received the same type of training I did.”

            “You expect me to believe that _girl_ is a trained killer?” Barsad looked at him with cynical disbelief, holding back a sardonic laugh.

            “She’s had no cause to kill anyone, but if it becomes necessary I assure you she has the appropriate skills.”

            “Well then.” Barsad paused and gave an amazed shake of his head. “I just might have to hang around you long enough to meet this teenaged assassin.”

            Bane was glad the mask hid his small, proud smile. “She will not disappoint you.” The smile, however, was short-lived because he told himself that only his weakened state had allowed him to contemplate seeing Talia. No matter what his desire, he knew it was best for her relationship with her father if he remained on the fringes only. Every opportunity for contact would only rekindle her outrage over his excommunication and keep open the festering wound that needed to mend if she was to have a vibrant relationship with her powerful parent.

            “I will be honored—and grateful—if you do remain with me,” Bane quietly, sincerely said. “And I’m sure I can speak for Talia when I say she would encourage your loyalty.”

            “Why?” A glimmer of teeth revealed Barsad’s amusement, his quick ability to banish his previous irritation. “So I can keep you out of trouble?”

            “I am not so proud that I don’t admit to certain…faults. And I find that you—better than anyone before you—lend a…valuable balance. A voice of objectivity.”

            “Yeah, a voice you don’t listen to.”

            “On the contrary, brother. Though I may not always take your advice, I _do_ listen to it, and I appreciate it. Most men speak much, but their words have little worth. You, on the other hand, seem to have an innate ability to see and speak only what is important. You understood immediately what I was doing back in that barn. You anticipated my actions. I could not have escaped alone.”

            “Now you’re just getting all maudlin on me so I don’t walk out on your ass once we get to Karkit. Never thought you’d be one to butter someone up.” A rekindled spark danced in his eyes when he added, “Have to admit I kinda like it.” He flashed a devilish grin. “Now…do me a favor, brother, and see if there’s any cigarettes in that glove compartment.”

            Bane cast him a baleful eye, but Barsad read through his false threat and chuckled, gesturing impatiently toward the glove box. Obeying at last, Bane’s search allowed him to hide the smile that his eyes would betray, pleased beyond words that Barsad had finally called him brother. And with that, Bane knew their bond would forever be unbreakable.


	16. Chapter 16

            Barsad’s snoring awoke Bane, that and the rattle of distant gunfire somewhere in the streets of war-torn Grozny. Chechen militants, perhaps some of Bane’s own men, though they were not supposed to be out on the streets. After yesterday’s IED attack had killed four Russian soldiers, Bane had ordered all in his unit to lay low for several days. Other units had even fled the city for one of the safe havens in villages to the south or in the mountains along the border with Georgia. Bane, of course, remained in Grozny, a familiar haunt for the past two years, ever since leaving the Kargil War behind him.

            He sat up on the lumpy bed, glanced at his friend beside him, short hair sticking out in all directions, mouth sagging open. His lieutenant had been out late last night, and when he had returned, he found Bane still awake. They had talked for a few minutes about the day’s operations, Bane propped up with pillows for his aching back, Barsad sitting on the opposite edge of the bed. Then they had watched the BBC’s continuing coverage of last month’s 9-11 attacks on the United States. Since that day it seemed the news networks talked of nothing else. The lingering conflict between Chechnya and Russia was forgotten except by those fighting there and the civilians who were still trying to piece their lives back together after the Second Chechen War had officially ended over a year ago.

            Bane could not remember falling asleep, but he had awoken a couple of hours later to find the television shut off and Barsad snoring away in his bed, no doubt too exhausted to have retired to his own room. Bane had simply smiled to himself and shook his head before drifting off again.

            Now Bane eased his way out of bed, trying not to disturb Barsad. He pulled on his pants, glanced at his back brace on a nearby chair, growled at it before heading into the bathroom. When he returned, Barsad snored on, one muscular forearm crooked over his eyes as if to combat the light filtering through the worn, faded curtains. He would let his friend sleep as late as he wanted; after all, he deserved it. In a moment of weakness, Bane wished they could both take some time off, go someplace where no bullets were flying through the air, where they were not hunted. He thought of his old mountain home, the quiet there, the peace. Though he had often spoken of it to Barsad over the years, he had of course never taken him there. His American brother would be even less welcomed there than he.

            Just as his thoughts followed the usual progression to Talia, his mobile phone began to ring. Barsad stirred, moaned a groggy curse and turned away from the sound, dragged the pillow over his head. When Bane grabbed the phone and checked the ID, his breath caught.

            “Bane,” Talia’s voice filled his ear before he could even utter hello. “Bane, are you there?”

            With a glance at Barsad, Bane kept his voice low as he hurried from the room. “Talia, are you all right?” He did not like what he sensed in her rush of unsteady words. The very fact that she was calling him bespoke of trouble, for their communications over the years had remained limited under his orders; he was a wanted man, and he feared her being tied to him and perhaps used as leverage should he be foolish enough to fall into the hands of his many enemies, as he had in India.

            “No,” she said, tears in her voice now. “Something terrible has happened.”

            Bane’s fingers twitched, senses instantly on high alert. He entered the living room and paced, staying away from the window. The television had been left on there all night as well but the volume was too low for him to hear over his agitated thoughts. “What is it, _habibati_? Are you hurt? Are you safe?”

            “Yes. Yes, I’m safe. I’m at Oxford.” The sound of her voice changed once more, became slightly muffled as if she had her hand cupped around the mouthpiece to limit the projection of her words. “Papa is here.”

            “At Oxford? Why?”

            “He was injured. A severe concussion.”

            “What happened?” Bane knew there was more to Rā’s al Ghūl’s visit than simple recuperation, for the man had not seen his daughter—had not been allowed to by Talia herself—since Bane’s excommunication.

            She was unmistakably crying now. So unlike her. The quiet sobs tore at Bane, unsettled him, and he had to fight to keep his tone collected and calm for her sake. “Talia, tell me what happened.”

            “Akar’s dead… Choden, Jamyang… They’re all dead.”

            Bane went cold. “What?”

            “Our home…it’s—it’s gone.”

            He stared at the bare, cracked wall in front of him. The leather of his wrist brace—the brace Talia had given him—made a protesting creak, reminding him to relax his hand, not crush the phone. “What do you mean—gone?”

            Talia struggled to compose herself so she could answer and at last choked out, “Bruce Wayne.”

            Bane’s jaw clenched. He could feel his blood pressure soar. “What about Wayne? You don’t mean he’s there with you—?”

            “No, no, of course not; not here.” Hatred in her words, and Bane knew…

            “What did he do?” In enraged agony, he listened to her gut-wrenching sobs. “Talia…what did he do? Did he kill Akar and the others? Is he responsible for your father’s injury?”

            Painstakingly slow, she began to tell the story, and as she spoke, Bane unwittingly sank down upon an old sofa, staring at the slate gray sky beyond the threadbare curtains. He sensed Barsad’s approach, heard the man’s soft, worried inquiry, but his focus remained outside, his whole body frozen in place, his mind far away at his mountain home.

            “Wayne had passed Papa’s test and was about to be fully initiated into the League,” Talia continued. “But when Papa told him that he must show his commitment to justice by executing a villager who had committed murder, Wayne refused. Papa tried to reason with him, tried to make him understand that compassion is a weakness, one our enemies don’t share. Even when Wayne was told my father’s plan—that he would be leading the League’s efforts against Gotham City—it did not sway him. Papa warned him there was no turning back. Wayne didn’t care what he said.” She made a small sound of despair. “Oh, Bane, why didn’t Papa listen to you? To me? He never should have taken in a man like Wayne. We both knew no good would come of it. Wayne is as corrupted by power as the mob thugs who run his precious city. He would never join us.”

            “What happened, Talia?”

            She gathered herself once more before continuing; he could see and feel her effort as acutely as if she were sitting beside him. “Papa said it was the explosive powders; Akar and the others had just resupplied the armory. Wayne threw the branding iron there. All Papa remembers after that was asking Wayne what he was doing.” Talia stifled a sob. “Wayne said… ‘What’s necessary, my friend.’ Can you believe it? Using Papa’s own words against him!”

            “When did all this occur?” Cold purpose rang in Bane’s voice, the emotions hastily bundled away. He needed information.

            “It’s been over a week. Wayne carried Papa off the mountain and left him in Drolma’s care. Drolma told Papa that Wayne had saved his life.”

            “If Bruce Wayne rejected the League and purposefully destroyed the monastery, why would he spare your father?”

            “He doesn’t know Papa’s true identity. He knows him only as his mentor, Henri Ducard.” She hesitated. “Papa says…they became close over these past two years. He called him his greatest—”

            Talia bit back the rest of her sentence, and though Bane appreciated her effort to spare him, he knew what she had nearly revealed. A twinge of jealousy irritated him, but he mentally swatted it away and asked, “Does Wayne know who you are?”

            “No.”

            “Are you certain?”

            “Yes. Papa said he never told Wayne about me.”

            Thinking of Rā’s al Ghūl’s ultimate plan to wed his daughter to Wayne, Bane hoped what her father had told her was indeed true. Knowing the man’s cautious nature, Bane felt fairly confident Rā’s would not have revealed Talia until it was absolutely necessary. Perhaps even then Rā’s would have hidden his paternity from Wayne.

            “What became of Wayne after he left your father with Drolma?”

            “I’m not sure. I didn’t ask Papa. He got in late last night, and he was very tired. I learned what I could, but I didn’t want to tire him further.”

            “Bane,” Barsad touched his shoulder, sank beside him on the couch as he pointed toward the television.

            Bane stared at the screen. A GCN reporter stood outside of a skyscraper in Gotham City. A building Bane had seen before, though not in person: Wayne Tower. The main doors had opened behind the reporter, and a sharp-dressed young man emerged. Instantly reporters and photographers mobbed him. Bane remembered that face all too well from Shanghai, though now Bruce Wayne was clean-shaven, dark hair trimmed and slicked back, nails manicured, wearing an impeccably tailored navy blue suit with a pale yellow tie. Fresh as a daisy. As if he had not just killed a young, crippled Bhutanese man and all of his brothers with him…Bane’s brothers, Talia’s brothers.

            The headline banner on the broadcast read: _Bruce Wayne returns from the dead to reclaim empire. Gone seven mysterious years_.

            “He’s back in Gotham,” Bane ground out the words to Talia. “It’s on the news.”

            “ _Habibi_ ,” she said, the endearment successfully halting the race of his thoughts. “Will you come back to us now? Papa will need you.”

            The very concept of Rā’s al Ghūl accepting him back into the fold left him momentarily speechless.

            “Bane? Are you there?”

            “Y—yes. I’m here.”

            “Will you come back to us? Papa could send his jet—”

            “Talia, has he said any of this to you, that he wants me back?”

            “Well…no, but he will. Of course he will. He’s lost some of his most valuable operatives.”

            “Some, Talia, but not all. The League has assets across the globe. You know that. Your father will have others ready to step forward into the…” he swallowed hard, fought the emotions, “…the vacancies.”

            “But no one, _no one_ is as capable as you, _habibi_. He knows that. And I will remind him.”

            “Talia, _if_ your father is considering such a thing, you must let him make that decision on his own.”

            “Come here, Bane, now. Talk to him. Together we can convince him.”

            “I can’t just leave operations here.”

            “But you must. The League needs you.”

            “Talia, please—”

            “Think of Akar and Choden. Don’t you want to avenge them?”

            “Of course I do, and in time I shall. But when it comes to the League, we must leave your father’s command decisions in his own hands.”

            Talia made a small sound, a mix of hurt and indignation. “Well, if you won’t come to see Papa, then come here for me. I need you.”

            He glanced at Barsad, who caught his drift and headed into the kitchen.

            Bane's voice softened, “There is nothing in the world I want more than to see you again, _habibati_ , but it will do me no good to come to Oxford if your father does not want me there.”

            “I don’t care what he wants. _I_ want to see you. I need you. I miss you so much.”

            Though her admission pleased him and drew a smile, the expression had a taste of melancholy. “Why should you need me when you have…what’s his name? Phillip?”

            “Bane, stop,” she pouted. “You know I can’t talk to Phillip—or anyone—about this. Only you understand. And, like I said, I’m sure now, together, we can convince Papa to take you back.”

            “As I said, little mouse, I will only come if your father requests my presence. And, trust me, if he does, I will leave everything and come to you.”

            “You would leave even Barsad?”

            Bane detected her usual teasing whenever she spoke of his lieutenant.

            “For now. However, if your father does reinstate me, I am confident Barsad would join our cause. I would insist upon it.”

            “Insist to whom? Barsad or Papa?”

            Bane grinned at her cheekiness, pleased that her tears were gone now. “Both.”

            She gave a mild snort. “I think you care more for him than me.”

            Now he laughed, the sound drawing Barsad back from the kitchen. “Well, he did sleep with me last night.”

            “See!”

            Barsad held out his hands in mock protest, mouthing, “What the fuck?”

            Bane chuckled and managed to keep his distaste over Talia’s latest suitor from his voice. “You aren’t fooling me, _habibati_ ; I know Phillip is no mere study partner.”

            “Fair enough,” she allowed then lowered her voice, taking on the sultry tone of a woman far beyond her nineteen years. “But he is not you.”

            “And don’t forget that.” He sobered. “Now I must say good-bye. I am needed elsewhere soon.”

            Talia blew an impatient sigh. “I will call you later, after I have spoken again with Papa.”

            “Very well. But remember what I said, Talia—if I am to return, it must be your father’s decision. It will not work otherwise.”

            “All right,” she begrudgingly murmured.

            “And don’t think I’ll forget Akar and our brothers. Bruce Wayne will pay for what he’s done.”

            “Yes. If it’s the last thing I do, I will see to it.”

            As he said good-bye, Bane smiled behind the mask. Such a little warrior. He had never loved her more.

            The news report on Bruce Wayne had ended, so he turned off the television. Barsad sat on the arm of the sofa.

            “What happened, brother?”

            Now that Bane no longer had to fight his grief for Talia’s sake, sorrow flooded him, and he did not answer for a long moment. Of course he could not tell Barsad everything. Even after all this time together, there was much he kept hidden from his friend…for all of their sakes.

            “Are you leaving?” Barsad asked.

            “No.”

            “But something is wrong.”

            “Yes, very wrong.” Bane sighed and leaned back on the sofa, tried to recover. “Several of the men I used to work closely with were killed recently, and my home was destroyed.”

            “I’m sorry, brother,” Barsad frowned. “Judging from what I heard of your conversation, I’m guessing this Bruce Wayne fellow had something to do with it.”

            “Indeed.” Bane’s fingers twitched. He stared at his wrist brace.

            “Will you go after him?”

            “In time, yes.”

            Seeing that Bane would not elaborate further, Barsad got to his feet. “Well, when you do, you know you can count on me.”

            “Of course. Thank you, brother.”

            Barsad gave him a tight smile. “I’ll fix us some breakfast before we have to head out.”

            Bane stared at the darkened television, saw Bruce Wayne again, the epitome of wealth and privilege. What had Rā’s al Ghūl seen in the man? Well, no matter what it was, plainly that delusion had been shattered, shattered into a million fiery pieces like their home. So much for his “greatest student.” Bane knew Rā’s would not make the mistake of trusting Wayne again, for Rā’s was a stubborn, steadfast, proud man. And because of those qualities, Bane also knew—no matter what Talia said or did—Rā’s al Ghūl would never take him back.


	17. Chapter 17

            The windowless room had grown intolerably hot. Too many male bodies, too much tension for a warm spring day. Bane stared without flinching at the Saudi seated on a worn cushion on the floor in front of him. The man stared back with equal intensity. Bane found his dark chocolate brown eyes striking. For one responsible for the deaths of thousands in the past and for thousands yet to come, his eyes seemed incongruously benign. Most killers Bane knew reflected unfeeling frigidity, but this tall, slim man was different, taking Bane slightly by surprise, though of course he concealed such a weakness. He had seen dozens of pictures of the infamous Saudi—a man ten years older than Bane—but the photos had not prepared him for what he experienced in person. And while he disliked the man for a number of reasons—the main one being his obscene wealth—he did appreciate his leadership skills, audacity, and strategic planning.

            The strained silence stretched longer between the two. Bane had no ally in the room; even Barsad had not been allowed anywhere near this location—he was, after all, an American, the worst kind of infidel in the eyes of al-Qaeda. The others in the room were the Saudi’s men, armed to the teeth, rawboned, tough, murderous, but not completely without fear of the strange masked man in their midst. They had been taken aback by his real-life appearance just as he had been by their leader. No, Bane decided, there were only two men in this room without fear—himself and Osama bin Laden.

            “Are you certain I cannot change your mind?” bin Laden asked at last, having grown impatient with his guest.

            “I never change my mind. Like you, I am nothing if not decisive. You honor me with such a generous offer, though, and I thank you.”

            bin Laden inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement. He wore a tan colored pakol, reminding Bane of bin Laden’s formative days fighting with the _mujahideen_ against the Russians, a common enemy, considering Bane’s years in Chechnya. It was this commonality and Bane’s growing reputation in the ranks of so-called freedom fighters that had gained bin Laden’s attention. And though the League of Shadows had not been spoken of by name in their discussion today, Bane knew bin Laden was not only aware of the League but had contributed monetarily to some of the League’s operations, including Rā’s al Ghūl’s plans for the destruction of Gotham.

            “As I said,” Bane continued, “I will extend your offer to our Chechen brothers. With your provisions to bring them here, I am confident many will be proud to serve in your ranks.”

            bin Laden’s full lips—as full as Bane’s had been before being mutilated—stretched in a smile that contained both regret and cynicism. “My understanding is that those who fight for the Masked Man are fiercely loyal to him; his leadership and courage nurtures such virtues, they say. And so I am not as confident that they will come here without him.”

            “Perhaps you underestimate the admiration your Muslim brothers in Chechnya have for you.”

            bin Laden’s smile attempted to dismiss the flattery, yet Bane knew the wily bastard enjoyed every word, especially in front of his men.

            But now there was little left to discuss, and so formal farewells were exchanged, and a familiar hood covered Bane’s head before he was escorted from the building.

#

            When Bane returned to the Serena Hotel in Islamabad, where bin Laden had spared no expense to curry his favor, he found his suite empty, but by the time he had showered, Barsad strolled in from his evening swim in the pool.

            “Well,” he grinned at Bane, ruffling his short hair with a towel, “good to see you back with your head still attached to your shoulders.”

            “I’ve ordered room service.”

            “Steak, I hope.”

            “Just the way you like it cooked, brother,” Bane said with his eyes revealing amusement. “Nice to see you were enjoying yourself while I was gone.”

            “Woulda went with you, but I wasn’t invited, remember?”

            Bane grunted, feigning skepticism toward Barsad’s claim that he would have left the five-star hotel for a dusty trek to the Pakistan/Afghanistan border. He stretched out on the bed, leaving his uncomfortable brace off for a reprieve.

            “So what was the Lion Sheik like?” Barsad asked as he went into the spacious, sparkling bathroom to remove his plush white robe and swim trunks.

            “He was as I expected, yet not as I expected, if that makes any sense.”

            The toilet flushed, and Barsad emerged naked, crossing into his own room and returning in boxers and t-shirt. He flopped into a comfortable chair with his usual air of insouciance, running fingers through his damp hair in a half-hearted attempt to tame it but instead causing it to stick up. Bane noticed how the hairline above his temples was beginning to recede, increasing the height of his forehead.

            “Actually it makes perfect sense,” Barsad said with a refreshed sigh. “And I’m sure ol’ Osama felt the same way about the infamous Masked Man.” He grinned that familiar proud grin, the expression of a sibling to an older brother. Taking up a glass tumbler from a coffee table, he downed the last swallow of Scotch left there from before his swim, the ice having melted away. “So what did he want with you to fly us all this way and ensconce us in the lap of luxury?”

            Bane could tell his friend was greatly enjoying his “vacation,” as he called it. Bane could not begrudge his lieutenant such enjoyment. After all, Barsad had earned a little R&R. They had been in the field for well over two years now, without a break. Of course Bane had never heard from Rā’s al Ghūl after Bruce Wayne’s treachery, just as he had predicted, so he and Barsad had remained fighting the guerrilla war in Chechnya—with a sidebar in Dagestan—ever since.

            “He wanted us and our men to help fight the Americans in Afghanistan.”

            Barsad raised an eyebrow. “And you said?”

            “I told him I would extend his invitation to our Chechen brothers and that any who choose to leave will do so with my blessing.”

            “Very magnanimous of you,” Barsad grinned and laced his fingers behind his head. He leaned back with a smug twinkle in his ice-blue eyes. “Well, look at you. Quite the reputation, brother. Courted by the world’s most wanted terrorist. And did you agree to join him yourself?”

            “Of course not. You know I’m not interested in anyone’s so-called holy war. I’m no more a _jihadist_ than you.”

            “That’s right, brother. We fight for a different god: money. But somehow I bet Osama pledged to throw plenty of that at you.”

            Bane dragged another pillow behind his stiff neck. The ride back to the city had been long and uncomfortable. “You and I both know I will never take orders from another man. I learned that lesson the hard way back in Shanghai. It cost Temujin his life, and eventually led to the death of many more who were dear to me.”

            Bane’s words wiped away Barsad’s lighthearted attitude, leaving him to nod solemnly. On the coffee table, his mobile phone began to vibrate. When he looked at the caller ID, his eyes widened in surprise.

            “Maysam,” he said to Bane as he picked up the phone.

            It was not unusual to hear from Maysam a couple of times a year, for she liked to check up on them and ensure that neither had taken a bullet. But whenever she called, the first thought through Bane’s head was always of Talia, fearing that Maysam was telephoning with some dreadful news. Such worries touched him now when he saw the expression of concern on Barsad’s face after only the first few words of the conversation. Yet, Bane assured himself, if the news were about Talia, Maysam would have called him, not Barsad.

            “When did this happen?” Barsad quietly asked. He nodded slightly as he listened further. “I see… Are you safe?”

            At these words Bane sat up in bed, tried to catch Barsad’s eye, but his friend was staring at his empty glass.

            “Good. Is Ayman with you?” He nodded again as she answered at length. “Of course I’ll come. Let me talk to Bane, then I’ll call you back… Yes… Yes, he’s right here… Okay.” Barsad brought the phone over to Bane. “She wants to talk to you.”

            It was wonderful, as always, to hear her voice, a voice so much like Melisande’s, even after all these years. But he heard the sorrow in her tone immediately, and his body tensed with dread.

            “How are you, Haris?” she asked, using the only name she ever called him, one that gave him an immense sense of pride and family.

            “More importantly how are you?”

            “Well, I…I am not particularly well at the moment. My husband has died. He suffered a heart attack; at least that is what I have been told. That is why I called.”

            A mixture of disparate reactions momentarily stunned Bane as Barsad carried his empty glass out of the room to get a refill from the wet bar. Though Bane felt sorry for any pain Siddig’s death caused Maysam, the majority of his inner response was one of great satisfaction. Because of what Siddig had done to Melisande, there was no one Bane hated more. It was a rancor that eclipsed even his hatred for his own grandfather for condemning his mother to the pit simply because of her love for Edmund Dorrance.

            Bane could not force sincerity into his stolid response, “I’m sorry to hear that, Maysam.”

            She made a small, dismissive sound. “There is no need for words you do not mean, Haris. I understand. I did not call for sympathy but instead to invite you and Barsad here. Not to attend the funeral, of course; not you, but Barsad will want to attend. While they were not what you would call friends, Barsad and Siddig had a very good…working relationship. There was respect there.”

            “Of course. Barsad never would have worked for him if it had been any other way. But why do you want me there?”

            “Haris,” she said indulgently, as if to a difficult son. “Why wouldn’t I want you to come? I haven’t seen you in years, and isn’t it about time you took a break? How many times have I offered and you haven’t come? Besides, someone will be here who specifically asked that I invite you.”

            “Who?”

            “Why, Talia, of course.”

            “What?” He glanced furtively at Barsad who returned with his replenished glass. “But—but do you think that wise? Will it be safe—?”

            “My husband is dead, Haris. There is no threat to her now. And don’t you think it’s time I see my granddaughter face to face? It has been years.”

            Joyous anticipation had renewed Maysam’s tone, making it impossible for Bane to deny a smile of his own, a smile of relief over a neutralized threat and the image of Maysam getting to hold her grandchild in her arms. Indeed, for nearly twenty years now Maysam had been a prisoner of sorts herself, unable to openly acknowledge Talia, too fearful to even attempt to meet at a neutral site except after Talia’s escape from prison. Not even the briefest of encounters was worth gambling with her granddaughter’s safety.

            “And,” Maysam continued, “I think it would be fitting that the man responsible for my reunion with Talia should be here with us.”

            “Responsible? But your husband’s death—”

            “I’m referring to you protecting my daughter and grandchild in prison, preserving her life. Really, Haris,” she teased, “you should allow yourself some credit now and then. You are far too humble.”

            Bane smiled. “Barsad would disagree with you on that point.”

            Maysam chuckled. “There…you have made a grief-stricken widow laugh. Now say you will make me happier still by coming with Barsad to be with me and Talia in my time of need.”

            “I will release Barsad, of course. Let me see what I can arrange here so I might come as well.”

            “Thank you, Haris. Now let me speak again to Barsad so I can recruit his help in convincing you.”

            Now it was Bane who chuckled. “Have I ever told you that you are as intractable as Talia?”

            “Yes,” she replied lightly. “I believe you have…several times, in fact. And I’m eager to find out firsthand what other qualities I have in common with Talia now that she is a grown woman.”

            Bane could tell Maysam was taking great pleasure in being able to actually say her granddaughter’s name without worrying that someone might be listening to her phone conversations.

            Maysam sobered. “Please do come, Haris. It will mean the world to both of us.”

            “I will do my best.”


	18. Chapter 18

            Bane banged his fist against the door to Barsad’s room. “Hurry up. We’ll be late.”

            “One more minute,” Barsad’s voice came from afar.

            Bane hesitated, sniffed the warm spring air drafting through the guesthouse, scowled. Damn Barsad and his odious habit.

            He opened his lieutenant’s door to find the room empty and the doors to the veranda open. As expected, Barsad was out there in the late morning sunlight, hastily stealing the final drags on a cigarette. He smiled without apology and flicked the butt over the railing

            Bane stood with arms crossed against his powerful chest as Barsad sauntered back in, his half-dressed form silhouetted by the sunlight. Beyond the guesthouse and several courtyards, the compound’s main palace arose, and Bane half expected to see Maysam’s distant form upon one of the upper verandas. Or perhaps Talia. The very idea that she was so close momentarily distracted Bane, and his gaze lingered on the resplendent, six-story structure.

            “No sense having your pants on fire,” Barsad laconically insisted as he reached for a clean white shirt. “We won’t be late.”

            “We will be, if you insist on moving as slow as a tortoise.”

            “No worries, brother.” Barsad buttoned his shirt and tucked it into his khaki pants. When he sat to slip on his shoes, he quirked an eyebrow at Bane. “You’re sweating. Granted, it’s warmer here than in Chechnya, but…” Then he peered closer, and Bane inadvertently tried to avoid his eye. “Something the matter? If I was a paranoid sort, I’d say you look like you’re hiding something.”

            Bane knew there was a bit of cruelty in not telling Barsad ahead of time that Talia was here and that she was Maysam’s granddaughter. Yet neither did he feel comfortable telling Maysam’s secret to anyone, not even Barsad. Even now he felt uneasy about Maysam’s decision to openly embrace Talia as her kin; it was this unease that had him perspiring. Bane knew enough about Siddig El Fadil to know that the man had many enemies, enemies who might seek vengeance against his family since they could no longer harm Siddig himself. Bane had expressed his concerns to Maysam before agreeing to come to Rajasthan, but she had assured him that she would never do anything that would endanger Talia.

            “Just put your other shoe on, and let’s go,” Bane growled, turning for the door.

            Hisham, a servant Bane remembered from his first visit to Maysam’s home, waited for them in the large, airy reception hall on the ground floor, but Barsad waved him off with a smile, saying, “No need, Hisham, I remember my way.”

            But Hisham knew his duty and instead escorted them through the various courtyards. The air was filled with the music of birds and the distant noise of the village beyond the compound walls. The hot breath of the Thar Desert crept in, promising a rise in temperature, but Hisham kept them to the covered walkways as much as possible to avoid the sun.

            Bane found it difficult to maintain the staid pace that Hisham had set. Barsad, however, walked along as casually as if he had never left this place. Before departing from the guesthouse, he had tried one more time to induce Bane to reveal what was agitating him, but when Bane was not forthcoming Barsad allowed the matter to drop, knowing all too well that badgering his friend would get him nowhere. Now he seemed perfectly content to stroll through the mesmerizing, colorful architecture of the compound as if he were walking through the “hollers” of West Virginia, quietly humming some country tune that Bane despised.

            Bane’s impulse was to rush ahead, to see Talia standing before him, to feel her in his arms, no longer a mere smiling face in a photograph. His fingers twitched almost nonstop on the endless journey to the main palace, and his heart beat wildly, no matter how he tried to control his emotions.

            By the time they reached the palace, Barsad had engaged Hisham in banal conversation about the local village and even a bit of gossip about the palace staff, revisiting days when he was a regular fixture here. His lieutenant’s skill at fitting in socially no matter the environment or company had always astounded Bane. West Virginia charm, Barsad called it.

            The palace was not quiet, as it had been the last time Bane had been there. Hisham deftly maneuvered past small knots of mourners, men and women whose conversations abruptly halted when they saw Bane’s strange, masked visage. Their children either ran back to them or stood in shocked silence, mouths gaping, eyes wide. Barsad saw someone among the mourners whom he knew, and Bane waited in painful silence next to Hisham until Barsad returned from speaking to the man, then they were on their way once more. By now Barsad had lost his casual indifference, his demeanor affected by the sorrow that permeated the palace atmosphere.

            An elevator took them up three floors. From there Hisham led them to the end of a long, carpeted hallway bathed in sunlight, which spilled in from the verandas on the right-hand side. As if it were yesterday, Bane remembered sitting on one of those verandas with Maysam, meeting Barsad for the first time, just a few days after being excommunicated. A lifetime ago. It seemed to him now that he had been away from the League for decades, and the sensation brought a sense of loss to him, made him worry for a mere, illogical moment that Talia was not here, that he had lost her forever, along with his brothers in the League.

            Then he heard her laughter. The lyrical sound stopped him in his tracks just outside the room from wherein it came, so clear and light, no longer obscured by a telephone. He stood frozen as Hisham opened the large double doors. A high ceiling made the spacious room before him seem almost cavernous, its lavish use of gilding and mirrors on both ceiling and walls reflecting sunlight from the facing wall of floor-to-ceiling windows. That and the sparse furniture, whose orange cushions and gilt added to the room’s dazzle, made Talia appear small there on a sofa with Maysam, so small that for a moment he was back in prison, sitting in front of a brazier with Talia in his arms and Melisande close beside him.

            “Bane?” Barsad’s voice tried to penetrate the mist. “You all right?”

            “Bane!” Talia was on her feet in an instant, rushing toward him, somehow unimpeded by her full-length skirt, a beautiful green and black _hijab_ flowing behind her

            Bane staggered forward into the room, and Talia fairly flew into his arms. As he wrapped her in his embrace, her laughter dissolved into happy tears. Her arms—so tiny compared to his—clutched him as tightly as they could, her cheek pressed to his thick chest, her warmth, her smell filling him, overwhelming him with joy, and he felt his own tears pressing against his closed eyelids.

            “—the hell?” Barsad mumbled from seemingly far off, though he stood mere feet away.

            Talia leaned back in Bane’s embrace just enough to put her hands tenderly on either side of the mask, their gazes locked. “I can’t believe it’s really you,” she said near a whisper.

            How he longed to kiss her. Robbed of such pleasure, he instead caressed her cheek with the back of one hand, wishing he could pull away the _hijab_ and touch her hair as well.

            “Wait a minute,” Barsad stammered. “You look… Wait… Bane, is this…are you… Jesus… Bane…is this _Talia_?”

            Unable to tear his gaze away from her, Bane simply said, “Yes,” and brought up his other hand to frame her face. Momentarily he leaned his forehead against hers as they used to do, the closest thing to a kiss between them.

            “Holy sh—I mean, geez, Bane. You couldn’t give me a little heads-up that she was going to be here?”

            Maysam smiled at Barsad’s sputtering as she approached, her cheeks showing the trails of her own spent tears from Talia’s morning arrival. Barsad looked to her for assistance, asking, “But how…why…?”

            Maysam put her hand on Talia’s shoulder, her pale brown eyes brighter than Bane had ever seen them, alight with pure elation and love. One would never guess she was in mourning. “This is my granddaughter, Barsad. But no doubt you know all about Talia from Haris.”

            “ _Haris_ hasn’t told me sh—I mean, anything. Definitely not the little detail about Talia being your _granddaughter_ , for God’s sake.” Red-faced but not angry, Barsad attempted to recover his decorum. “I—I’m sorry, Talia. I’m just a bit…floored is all.” He offered his hand. “Pleased to meet you. I’m John Barsad.”

            Talia smiled, brushing away the stray tears. “It’s so nice to finally meet you. But I feel as if I already know you. Bane speaks so highly of you.”

            “Yeah…well…” Barsad gave Bane one last disparaging look before addressing both Talia and Maysam, “I’m sorry for your loss. I should be offering my condolences to you and your family instead of being pissed—I mean, annoyed with Bane.”

            Maysam’s gaze flicked to Hisham who remained just inside the open doors. “That will be all, Hisham,” she said, switching from English to Arabic. When the man hesitated, obviously uncomfortable with his mistress receiving Bane without a male family member present, Maysam raised a displeased eyebrow to send him on his way, then she closed the doors behind him.

            “Why don’t we all sit?” Maysam gestured to the sofa, which was flanked by two chairs.

            Talia took Bane’s hand, hers so small and fragile compared to his. He gave her a gentle squeeze, and she beamed up at him. Though not quite twenty, her impeccable make-up made her appear older, somehow a woman now, no longer the teenager with whom he had lain almost three years ago.

            Hand in hand, they crossed the immense Persian rug that stretched nearly from wall to wall, patterned with deep red and blue designs. In the center, beneath a line of three glimmering chandeliers that added to the natural light through the windows, a small, hexagonal table displayed a stunning arrangement of blue orchids, which matched the rug. They reminded Bane of Talia’s eyes, eyes into which he never wanted to stop gazing, but somehow he managed to comport himself as a man instead of as a love-struck boy. He never should have waited so long to see her.

            Painfully reluctant, he freed Talia so she could sit on the sofa with Maysam. Behind the two women, a gold curtain draped around the frame of a large mirror which reflected the facing windows, giving the impression that the mirror were instead a window. Matching mirrors flanked this one, lacking the drapery, the total effect making the room seem twice as large as it already was. Similar mirrors hung from the other two walls, above empty, facing fireplaces. The whole room had a symmetry that reminded Bane of Georgian-Palladian architecture. He sat in a chair of the same design as the sofa, closest to Talia while Barsad took the one closest to Maysam. The absence from the room of one of Maysam’s male relatives surprised Bane.

            “We shouldn’t keep you from your family and guests at such a time,” he said.

            “ _You_ are my family, Haris, you and Talia.” She drew Talia’s hand into her lap, covered it with her other hand. “My brothers have everything under control. No doubt our guests merely think I am prostrate with grief, unable to see any of them.” A sardonic twist to her lips answered Bane’s curiosity about Maysam’s true feelings concerning her husband’s passing. “And it is best that they are allowed to think so.”

            “Guests or no,” Barsad said, his clean-shaven face still slightly red with consternation, “someone has to tell me what the hell—what’s going on. As many years as I served you and Siddig, I never heard one word about grandchildren. I thought Melisande was your only child.”

            “She was.”

            “But if she had Talia before she was banished, why hadn’t I heard—?”

            “No,” Maysam said. “Talia was born after Melisande left us.”

            “But—?”

            “Melisande was pregnant,” Bane offered, “when she arrived in prison. She didn’t realize it until a short time after.”

            The horrible reality of the situation dawned on Barsad as his attention turned to Talia. “So you were born there?”

            “Yes. I lived there until I was ten.”

            “But…Melisande… Bane and your grandmother said she died there.”

            “Yes, when I was five she was killed by the other prisoners, as I would have been killed,” her gaze turned to Bane, softened even more, “if not for my protector.”

            Barsad’s finger wagged between Talia and Bane. “So that’s how you know each other, from prison.”

            “Yes. Bane protected my mother and me. He raised me after she died.”

            “But that isn’t completely true,” Bane said bitterly. “I _failed_ at protecting Melisande.” He did not want Barsad under the impression that he was some sort of hero. “That’s why she’s dead.”

            “ _That’s_ not true,” Talia objected. “Don’t believe him, Barsad. No one could have protected my mother that day, believe me. Bane had to make a horrible choice, a choice no one should ever have to make, but it’s what my mother wanted him to do—to save _me_. And he did. He always has. That’s why he’s never told you, or anyone, about me—to protect me. Please don’t be angry with him. He and _Jiddah_ were afraid of what my grandfather might have done if he had known his daughter had become pregnant by an infidel, a man he felt had betrayed him by falling in love with my mother.”

            Barsad shook his head with a small sigh. “I need a drink.”

            “I’m afraid I can offer you nothing stronger than coffee,” Maysam said with a knowing smile.

            “That’ll have to do.”

            After Maysam summoned a servant to bring tea and coffee, Bane waited until the man left before he asked, “Have you told your family about Talia’s identity?”

            “My immediate family knows. For now, that is all, and that is how it will be until sufficient time has passed following Siddig’s funeral.” Maysam hesitated. “And now that my husband is dead, I will be severing my financial agreement with Talia’s father. As you know, the agreement was to protect Siddig from Henri Ducard seeking revenge for what Siddig did to Melisande. While some of that money also went to Talia, now I will be able to divert all of those funds directly to my granddaughter.”

            “No, _Jiddah_ ,” Talia protested, “you’re too generous; I can’t take your money…and it’s not necessary. Though Papa and I have our differences, he still generously provides for me in all things.”

            “As will I,” Maysam insisted. “My grandchild will want for nothing. You must let me make up for all of these terrible years we’ve been separated.”

            “But,” Talia’s cautious gaze flicked at Barsad before Bane, “Papa’s…organization needs those funds, especially considering what happened to our home last fall; he plans to rebuild. My rift with him doesn’t include the organization he leads. Both Bane and I still believe in their cause, and I am still a member. In time, Bane will be again, too.”

            Bane sighed. “Talia—”

            “No,” she was adamant, “Papa will come around eventually. How can he not? He knows all you’ve accomplished since he banished you. He’s just being stubborn and prideful and foolish.”

            “Hmm,” Bane said with a smile behind the mask, “doesn’t sound like anyone I know.” He winked at her, causing Maysam to chuckle.

            Talia gave him a look of exasperation before turning to Maysam. “Please, _Jiddah_ , I insist—”

            “If you choose to give your funds to your father’s organization,” Maysam said, “that is your choice, my dear. But I prefer they go to you and only you.”

            Bane wondered if Talia knew Maysam had also bankrolled part of his operations in the past two years, her way of showing her undying gratitude for all he had done for Melisande and Talia.

            “What of Siddig’s operations?” Barsad asked. “Are you in danger of losing anything?”

            “No. Amir, his eldest brother, will assume his role and secure all our assets. You remember Amir, Barsad?”

            Barsad scowled. “Of course. I remember him, but I never liked him…or his wife. And she’s been nothing but jealous of you all these years. I can see her tossing you out of here. She’s always coveted this palace.”

            Maysam waved a dismissive hand. “This place is more than big enough for the both of us, if she and Amir wish to move here.”

            “I have a feeling she’s not the sharing type,” Barsad grumbled, sipping his coffee.

            Speaking gravely, Bane said, “If you ever require protection, we are only a phone call away.”

            “Thank you, Haris, but I have nothing to fear.”

            “Now who’s being stubborn?” Talia gently scolded.

            “Indeed,” Bane said with a smile, “the trait runs deep among the females of this family.”

            “Look who’s talking,” Barsad said wryly, drawing a laugh from Talia, one she quickly stifled for fear of such mirth being heard beyond this room.

            “But now that you have mentioned it, Haris, I was wondering if I could induce you and Barsad to work for Amir, now that Siddig is gone. That way, you can call my home yours, and since I hope to be seeing much more of my granddaughter that would mean you and Talia would see more of one another as well.”

            “There is nothing I want more, I assure you,” Bane said. “But it doesn’t sound like Amir is someone Barsad would work for, and I’m afraid my days of taking orders from other men are over. However, it pleases me to know you and Talia will be free to spend time together.”

            Talia frowned. “But you will come see me when I visit _Jiddah_ , won’t you, Bane? You won’t make us wait another two and a half more years to see you, will you?”

            It was more of a directive than a request, which amused Bane.

            “You know,” Talia continued, this time in a playful tone, “once I’ve graduated from Oxford, it won’t be so easy for you to avoid me.”

            “ _Habibati_ , you know it’s not a matter of avoidance, especially because there is nothing farther from my intentions. It is for your own safety that I not tie myself to you in any way. I was foolish to carry even your picture on me during the Kargil War. I told you what happened.”

            “Yes,” she pouted. “But nothing happened to me. You worry too much over nothing.”

            “Your safety is not _nothing_. And I’m sure your grandmother agrees with me.”

            “I bet Barsad doesn’t,” Talia sought a new ally, surprising Barsad so much that he burned himself with his coffee. “Bane’s a big worry wart, isn’t he, Barsad? Like a mother hen, always clucking over me.” She cocked a dark eyebrow at Bane. “He forgets I’m no longer a child.”

            _Trust me, dearest one_ , Bane wanted to say, _I stopped thinking of you as a child the night I left the League_ , but instead he turned to Maysam for support. “ _You_ understand my concerns, of course.”

            “Of course, Haris. But my home will be a safe haven for both of you. No one will speak of your connection to Talia.”

            “See?” Talia parried. “You have no excuse now.”

            “I can see it’s pointless to argue with you, young _woman_.” He tried unsuccessfully to conceal his smile.

            Talia’s return smile was coy. “That’s right, _habibi_. And don’t forget it.”

            “Well,” Barsad set his cup on the gilded coffee table in front of the sofa, “I never thought I’d see the day when Bane lost an argument.”

            They all laughed.

            “How long do you plan to stay?” Talia asked.

            “Just until tomorrow.”

            “Tomorrow?” she cried. “You must stay longer. You need the rest, both of you. You look utterly worn out. All work and no play! Barsad, can’t you talk some sense into him?”

            “Oh no, there’s no doing that. Nothing can get through that thick, bald skull of his. I gave up trying back on that mountain in Kargil when I told him to leave me behind.”

            “Well then, I’ll have to find a way to convince him myself,” Talia insisted.

            The private glance she slipped Bane’s way brought hot color to his cheeks. Her openness in front of the others shocked him, for they might easily interpret her look as seductive, as did he. Her words added to the arousal she had stirred in him the minute the doors to this room had opened upon her beauty. Once seated, he had made sure to keep his legs crossed and rest his hands in his lap, his masking strategy aided by his wrist brace. If she only knew what was boiling in him, raging for release, she would never have been so overt in front of the others. Or…would she?

            As the conversation wound on for another hour, Bane could not keep his thoughts focused nor his eyes off Talia, though he did his best. He did not want to offend Maysam. Of course she knew nothing of his dalliance with her granddaughter. Well, at least not from his lips, and he could not imagine Talia would be so bold as to reveal their secret. Yet when he saw the spark of mischief in her eyes throughout the more lighthearted topics, he wondered if perhaps he did not know her as well as he thought. Telephone conversations certainly had their limitations; perhaps Talia was a different person face-to-face now. She was, after all, more worldly-wise than when he had last seen her. University had definitely changed her; he could see and sense it even more now that they were together. Then there was the influence of her circle of friends and—he forced the bile back down in his throat and stilled his twitching fingers—the boyfriends; he refused to think of them as men. Regardless of age, they were boys when compared to the maturity of his _habibati_. He had been relieved to hear that she would not be bringing Phillip to Rajasthan.

            “Will you both dine with us this evening?” Maysam’s question drew Bane back to the conversation.

            Bane cleared his throat. “I would never subject your family to such a thing. Thank you for the invitation, but I will eat in my room.”

            “Even if I insist?” Maysam pressed with an apologetic smile.

            “I’m sure Barsad will be happy to represent us both.”

            Barsad grinned eagerly. “I’m looking forward to it. Except for our little interlude in Islamabad, I haven’t had a decent meal in ages. Neither Bane or me are known for our culinary skills.”

            “I’ll have supper with you, Bane,” Talia said.

            Bane could tell she was eager for an excuse to avoid a formal dinner with so many strangers, strangers who no doubt would not unanimously accept her into the family, no matter what her grandmother may have promised. Gently he said, “Your place is with your family, _habibati_.”

            Talia started to protest but noticed Maysam’s hopeful expression, and so she lowered her gaze in submission and nodded.

            Maysam patted Talia’s hand. “Don’t worry, my dear. I promise I won’t let anyone be unkind to you. And, besides, how could they be when they see how like your mother you are?” Impulsively she put her arm around her granddaughter and drew her closer for a kiss on the cheek. “You must forgive me if I never want you to leave my sight. I have waited so long for this day. Having you here…it’s like having a part of my daughter back with me.” Emotion welled up, and she withdrew her arm as if this would keep her from revealing her true feelings.

            “Oh, _Jiddah_ ,” Talia said, tears coming to her eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

            “Sorry? Whatever for, child?”

            “It’s my fault Mama isn’t here with you, with us. I keep thinking about how happy she would be to see all of us together. If I hadn’t lied that day, if I hadn’t pretended to be sick, the doctor never would have been in our cell, he never would have forgot to lock the door.”

            Bane despaired when he saw the familiar darkness of survivor’s guilt in Talia’s large eyes, for he had hoped after all these years she had found a way to forgive herself for her mother’s death. Such sorrow did not belong in one so beautiful and young. He wanted to go to her, to kneel down before her and take her in his arms, to tell her that the fault was all his, not hers, that he never should have gone to the stepwell that infamous morning when Doctor Assad had entered Melisande’s cell.

            Maysam hugged Talia, held her close for a long moment, urgently insisted, “You have nothing to be sorry for. You should never, _never_ think what happened to your mother was your fault. How many times have I told you this? It was your grandfather who put her in that evil place, and I was helpless to stop him or save her. If there is anyone to blame, it is me for failing to help her.”

            Talia pulled back from her, hands on Maysam’s forearms. “No, _Jiddah_ —”

            “You were a helpless, innocent child, Talia, but I—I was her mother. And mothers are supposed to protect their children. It is an agony I will carry to my grave. But I would gladly carry this burden if I knew it would remove it from you.” With tears escaping, she caressed Talia’s wet cheek, managed a small, hopeful smile. “Please promise me that you will forgive yourself.”

            Talia’s gaze shifted to Bane, and as she said, “I can’t,” he knew she was saying it to him as well as to her grandmother, and that her tears were as much for him as for herself and Maysam.


	19. Chapter 19

            While Barsad and Talia attended the funeral, Bane spent his day at leisure—reading, crocheting, watching television, and napping; he had even turned off his phone. He also spent over an hour beyond the compound walls, roaming among the villagers, his face concealed behind a _shemagh_ and modified sunglasses. No matter where he was in the world, he did this regularly to learn and acquire a feel for the lives of others. These explorations were not only for intelligence purposes but to satisfy a deep-seated personal curiosity, almost a yearning, one he never told anyone about, not even Talia: a desire to know what it felt like to lead a normal life, a peaceful life, a family life, a life of which he would forever be denied, a life impossible to obtain since the first day he put on the mask.

            He ached to be with Talia but resigned himself to the fact that her _family_ obligations came first. The prospect of her being able to spend time with blood relatives other than her father—with Melisande’s family no less—filled him with conflicting emotions. While pleased that she now had a chance at a more traditional life, especially since her estrangement with her father, he also felt deep sorrow at the thought of these new relationships taking her away from him, now and in the future. A selfish impulse, he admonished himself, but a very real impulse just the same. After all, did he not deserve Talia more than these people—save Maysam—who had turned their backs on Melisande?

            Barsad had returned by the time Bane came back from his explorations, but neither man sought the other out. Barsad’s silence since meeting Talia spoke volumes, and Bane had to admit the man’s avoidance astounded him. Never before had Barsad hesitated to speak his mind or give an opinion, a trait Bane appreciated from his second-in-command…within certain limits. And after Barsad’s reaction when he had met Talia, Bane had anticipated a barrage of questions. Certainly anything other than stony silence. Bane took pride in being able to read others, but he had to admit Barsad’s reticence surprised him; after all, Barsad was neither moody nor prone to grudges. Yet perhaps, Bane cautioned himself, it was not the shock of meeting Talia that kept Barsad away but instead sadness over Siddig El Fadil’s death. True, Barsad had never expressed a deep affection for the man, but maybe he had kept his feelings to himself out of respect for Bane’s hatred of Siddig.

            They did not see one another until Barsad later came back from supper at the main palace. By then night had fallen, a mild spring night with a clear sky and sickle moon, so crisp and clear Bane felt he could reach out and touch it from where he sat on his veranda, staring toward the palace, willing Talia to come to him.

            Barsad entered Bane’s room without knocking—a significant lapse of respect—but Bane, always aware of his surroundings, immediately detected his entry. However, he neither moved from his chair nor called an invitation to his friend. Truth be told, a part of him had been relieved by Barsad’s avoidance since the reunion, for his emotions had been in turmoil ever since, leaving him feeling insular and unwilling to discuss Talia with anyone. He would have much preferred a visit from Talia over Barsad, but he also knew he could not hide from his lieutenant forever.

            “No crocheting tonight?” Barsad asked with a tempered smile as he stepped onto the veranda, carrying a cup of coffee. The smell of a recent cigarette lingered upon him.

            Bane did not respond. His fingers twitched, and he forced his gaze from the distant palace to his friend.

            Barsad, dressed now in a pair of gray sweats and white t-shirt, barefoot, settled with a sigh into a wicker chair. He set his cup on a small table that separated him from Bane, the shine from an overhead light just down the veranda shimmering against the black liquid. For a long moment neither spoke. Then he reclaimed the cup to sip from it as they stared toward the tiny squares of light shining from the windows of the main palace.

            “You could’ve trusted me, you know,” Barsad said at last in a voice now devoid of good humor, one that rang instead with hurt.

            “I beg to differ, brother.”

            Barsad turned angry eyes upon him, started to respond before Bane interrupted.

            “You were allied with a man who sentenced Talia’s mother to a living hell, the same man who would have seen Talia dead as well.”

            “You don’t know that.”

            “I couldn’t take the chance of being wrong.”

            “After all we’ve been through, you really think I would’ve betrayed such a secret to Siddig?”

            “Not consciously perhaps.”

            “Perhaps?” Now there was anger mixed with the injury. “Jesus, Bane—”

            “What I did was little different than you concealing your past relationship with Maysam.”

            “My relationship with—? Who said anything about a _relationship_ with Maysam?”

            Bane fully met Barsad’s gaze now. “ _You_ might have deceived me in the past, brother, when we discussed Maysam, but this morning your eyes could not.”

            “Don’t change the fucking subject, Bane. This isn’t about me or Maysam.”

            “You never told me—or anyone—about the relationship because you were afraid of what would happen to her if Siddig ever found out. So you see, brother, the subject we are discussing is indeed one and the same. My silence protected Talia; yours protected Maysam. The difference is I respect your reason for hiding the truth.”

            Barsad’s jaw clenched, and he swallowed his words in the face of such a logical rebuttal. Instead he sipped his coffee, regrouped, not ready to completely let his anger go. A moment later, he grumbled, “Well, you could have at least told me the truth before I fucking _met_ Talia today. Felt like a God damn fool in front of her and Maysam.”

            Fortunately the mask hid Bane’s small, amused smile. “For that, I do apologize. I admit I didn’t know how to tell you before we arrived here, and once we were here I didn’t want to argue about it.”

            “Well, you should’ve known _that_ was gonna happen, after all this time not knowing dick about her. Christ.” Barsad took another slurp of coffee.

            Bane said nothing for a time, allowing Barsad the opportunity to further vent his frustrations upon him. But his apology seemed to have soothed the worst of his friend’s resentment because Barsad simply simmered in silence as he finished his coffee.

            Finally Bane spoke, quietly, privately, as if they were in a room filled with other people. “How long was your affair?” When Barsad did not respond immediately, Bane raised a leading eyebrow and allowed a spark of mischief to encourage his friend. “Hmm? No need to hide the details now, brother.”

            Barsad tried to avoid his glance, tried to maintain his air of insult, but the longer Bane stared at him with that expression, the weaker Barsad’s resolve. Bane knew his lieutenant could never stay angry for any length of time.

            Though his cup was now empty, Barsad held it in his lap, staring at it, his thumb absently, slowly circling the rim. “It wasn’t long,” he finally said. “We both knew it was too dangerous to tempt fate.”

            “Is that why you left?”

            “Partly, but the affair had been over for nearly a year when I left with you. I left because of the reason I told you: I had gotten bored with the job. And being bored was dangerous when I was around Maysam, which was a regular thing.”

            “And now her husband is dead.”

            Barsad looked up in surprise, as if he thought Bane to be insinuating that he had something to do with Siddig’s death, but when he saw no accusation in Bane’s eyes, he relaxed and studied his cup again. “I didn’t come here in the hopes that Maysam and I will get back together. For one, she would never marry outside of her religion, and besides that, what we had together wasn’t like that. Don’t get me wrong—I love her, but we both know it was never one of _those_ types of relationships. You know, the kind where you make _plans_. We both just…needed each other at the time.”

            “Maybe she needs you again.”

            Barsad gave a small, cynical snort. “She’s the matchmaker, remember? Not you, brother.” Some of his usual sense of humor returned when he wagged a finger between them. “She set us up, right?”

            “Did you get a chance to speak with her privately today?”

            “No.”

            “Will you before we leave?”

            “Hopefully.” Barsad lifted his heavy-lidded gaze to the main palace. “She’s a strong woman, you know. Remarkably strong. But what Siddig did to their daughter damaged her deeply, to her very core. A part of her died the day Melisande was banished. You saw her today—after all these years it still haunts her. That’s what I first saw in her when I met her, that pain. And I recognized it from looking in the mirror. Eventually I opened up to her about my brother, and she told me about Melisande. That was the start of it. She couldn’t talk about it to anyone in her family; Siddig forbade her to.”

            “Did he ever harm her?”

            “No, not physically. He did love her, but after what he had done to Melisande…she lost all love for him. Easy enough to understand. So in that respect, I’m glad Siddig is dead—for her sake. Maybe now she can move on. And being able to see her granddaughter…well, you can already see the healing effect that’s had on her.”

            “How did the others treat Talia today? Were they cold?”

            “There were a couple who showed their…distaste, like Amir’s bitch of a wife. But, of course, Maysam was always right there with Talia, shielding her. No doubt she’ll overcompensate a bit, considering how guilty she feels about not being able to protect Melisande.”

            “Well, she can overcompensate as much as she wants, as far as I am concerned,” Bane rumbled. “I suspect if she hadn’t been there today, Talia would have been ostracized. She doesn’t belong to their religion, of course.”

            “Is she a Christian?”

            “Neither of us allows any religion to claim us. But with those who are close-minded, anyone who is not with them is against them in their eyes.”

            Barsad nodded sagely and set his cup on the table. “Talia seemed to hold her own. Her Arabic, by the way, is flawless from what I could hear.”

            “Of course she learned from her mother. And it was our secondary language in prison after Melisande died, though now Talia prefers French.”

            “Jesus, what a clusterfuck that must have been—a girl growing up in prison. How the hell did you keep Talia safe?”

            “When her mother was alive, Talia wasn’t allowed out of their cell except to go with me to the doctor’s cell. After Melisande was killed, Talia had a bit more freedom but always with me. I kept her head shaved, and since she was born she went by the name of Henri. I was the only other person who knew her real name.”

            “So you escaped together?”

            Bane hesitated. He had never told Barsad the whole truth about his deliverance from the pit; how could he without speaking of Talia? And now that Barsad knew of her, Bane found himself still reluctant to retell the tale of what had happened that terrible and wonderful day when Talia had escaped. Again, he had no desire for Barsad to think him a hero. He was relieved that Talia had obviously told his lieutenant no details during today’s long hours together, and also he figured Barsad had not been impertinent enough to ask for such personal specifics anyway, especially since he had just met her.

            “Talia escaped before me,” Bane said. “And I have her to thank for my eventual deliverance.”

            “Don’t believe everything he tells you, Barsad,” Talia’s voice startled both of them, and they turned to see her standing in the doorway. Dressed darkly, she thus blended with the shadows of Bane’s unlit room.

            “Jesus,” Barsad said. “You scared the hell out of me.” He sat up straighter in his chair. “See, she doesn’t knock either, Bane.” His grin showed palely as he stood to offer his chair to her. “Don’t worry, Talia. I don’t believe half the sh—half of what the Masked Man says.”

            As she settled in Barsad’s chair, she smiled her thanks, her beautiful expression instantly refueling Bane’s desires. “He’s too modest,” she said, “especially when it comes to what he has done for me. No doubt he’s told you next to nothing about his own time in prison, and even though you now know about me being there, don’t expect him to tell you about that either.”

            Bane shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

            “True, I escaped before him. But without him it never would’ve been possible. What you see now,” she reached across the table and tenderly touched the mask, “what he suffers with every day is because of me.”

            “Talia,” Bane said in a low, remonstrative tone. “Don’t.”

            “Well,” Barsad took a step toward the door, “I think it’s time for me to leave. I’ve put up with him long enough tonight, Talia. It’s time you take over the onerous task of entertaining the bear.”

            Bane did not like the expression that had swept over his lieutenant’s face the moment Talia had caressed the mask. It was a blend of astonishment and slyness. During their morning reunion, whenever Talia spoke directly to him, he had caught Barsad studying her, as if he were trying to piece together a puzzle, but he would quickly look away when Bane tried to catch his eye.

            “Good night, Barsad,” Talia said, and he padded away down the veranda to return to his own room.


	20. Chapter 20

            Bane somehow managed to conceal the passions roiling within him. Although he wanted to immediately carry Talia to his bed, he knew he could not assume she wanted the same thing after so much time had passed since their night together. To initiate something she might very well reject could lead to an awkwardness in their relationship that he feared would be irreparable, not to mention the pain such a rebuff would cause him. And then there was that worm of a boy, Phillip, back at Oxford—Talia’s true feelings for him were unknown to Bane.

            In a tightly controlled voice, he asked, “Should you be here, _habibati_? Judging from your dark clothing, your departure from the palace was…clandestine?” As he reached behind him to switch off the veranda light, he purposefully kept his gaze from her beauty, from the enticing long hair that flowed free now that she had removed her black cowl.

            “You know I don’t care what any of them think,” Talia spoke coldly. “But I do care about _Jiddah_ ’s feelings, so—yes—I left without anyone knowing.”

             “And no doubt that meant from your bedroom window?” He smiled to himself, proud of her stealth abilities.

            The iciness of her tone melted into amusement over his knowledge of her. “Of course. Just because I go to university, don’t think I haven’t kept up on my _ninjutsu_.”

            “Tell me of your day, _habibati_. Barsad said they were not too unkind.”

            “The others were tolerable, and I was happy to be able to be there for _Jiddah_. It was like being with Mama again. Doesn’t she remind you of her?”

            “Yes, very much so. It pleased me to see the two of you together this morning. It was true justice to see how the death of one so evil could bring the two of you together.”

            “The _three_ of us,” Talia chided, raising an eyebrow at him. “And Barsad. I was so glad to finally meet the man who’s taken such good care of my protector.”

            When the remark received the expected scoff from him, her teasing smile grew into a laugh.

            “We should go inside,” Bane said guardedly. “Someone could easily hear us out here.”

            “If you insist.”

            He got out of his chair and waited for her to precede him. With a knowing smile, she stood and took his hand to lead him into his room. Bane’s pulse quickened, and he knew she would feel it. Perhaps that had been her purpose in taking his hand.

            “Leave the lights off,” she said. “Perhaps it sounds odd but sometimes I miss the darkness. Do you?”

            “Yes. Often. But at least in Chechnya—and England, I imagine—the sun doesn’t shine nearly as much as here.”

            “England is a gloomy place most days.” She led him toward the fireplace and shed her black cloak, revealing a sleeveless dark shirt and loose-fitting cotton pants. “Let’s light a fire. It’ll be like old times, just the two of us enjoying the warmth together.”

            Though not in abundance, the wood in the rack would be enough to chase away the chill of a spring night. Together they built the fire, using newspaper to help fuel it, and soon the flames crackled and writhed, feasting upon the wood. Talia removed the comforter from Bane’s bed and folded it to sit on. As she settled cross-legged, Bane draped a light blanket over her shoulders.

            Talia smiled up at him, the dance of the fire accentuating her lovely high cheekbones. She held out her hand to him. “Sit close, _habibi_ , like we used to, under the blanket with me.”

            Bane almost asked what her boyfriend would say, but he had no desire to ruin the moment or his opportunity, so he happily complied. When he allowed a small space between them, she quickly snuggled tight and threaded her left arm through his right, the smooth softness of her flesh against his hardened bicep pleasing him, taking him back years.

            “How I’ve missed this,” Talia murmured. “I never feel so safe as when I’m close to you.”

            “Not even with your father?”

            “No.” She leaned her head against his shoulder, her clean scent and subtle perfume filling his senses. “I mean, I felt safe with him, but I was younger then. Now…well, so much has changed between me and Papa. But with you…it’ll always be the same, won’t it?”

            “Of course, little mouse.” Carefully he rested his head against hers, mindful of the mask’s uncomfortable edges. “It pleases me to hear you say this. I often fear you will forget me.”

            She quickly pulled away to regard him. “I could never forget you. How could you think that?”

            Now embarrassed, he shrugged and looked into the fire. “How could I not? You are a beautiful young woman with promise and opportunity all around you, and I am an old, broken-down soldier.”

            “Bane.” Her hands gently turned his face back toward her. “You are none of those things, and I don’t want to hear you say such nonsense again.”

            He chuckled at her scolding. “So you are the protector now?”

            She blushed and freed him, though he wished she had not. “I _can_ protect you, you know. Me and _Jiddah_ , if you came here to live and work. You would not have to always be looking over your shoulder like you do elsewhere.”

            “You know that would never work, Talia. You heard what I said this morning.”

            “I know, but…”

            Her endearing pout drew another chuckle from him, and he could not refrain from putting his arm around her and giving her an appreciative squeeze.

            “You look so tired, _habibi_ ,” she continued. “The work here, the climate, it would be easier on you.”

            “See,” he teased, “you do think me old.”

            “That’s not what I meant!” She gave his leg a playful slap. “I just think…you would be happier here. You could protect _Jiddah_ like you protected me and Mama.”

            “Maysam claims she needs no protection.”

            “Don’t believe her. Listen to Barsad and what he said about Amir and his wife. I met them today, and I can tell you Barsad is a good judge of character. I will worry about _Jiddah_ when I’m gone, especially if Amir moves into the palace. Once I graduate, I’m going to insist she come live with me.”

            “And where will that be, _habibati_?”

            Talia hesitated. “I’m not sure. But it won’t be with Papa.”

            “Just as well, for Maysam’s sake, if you plan on her being with you; your father will be displeased when she tells him she won’t be contributing to the League anymore.”

            “He will have nothing to complain about because I will still contribute some of what she gives me to the League.”

            “I’m glad your issues with your father have not caused you to turn your back on our brothers.”

            “Never. And one day, when you lead them, I will be even more generous, and by then I will have more resources.”

            Bane sighed at her persistence over his hypothetical return to the League but knew better than to argue with her again, especially now when he had much more pressing issues on his mind.

            In the companionable silence that followed, they listened to the language of the fire and watched the twisting tongues of flames. Bane, his arm still around Talia, gently stroked her long hair, letting tendrils trail leisurely between his fingers. She sighed in contentment and relaxed completely against him, all their worldly cares melting away, leaving nothing but each other for this brief, precious moment.

            She dreamily said, “Remember how you used to sing to me and Mama?”

            “Yes,” his answer came out hoarse, causing him to clear his throat and repeat it. Thankfully the blanket helped camouflage his erection.

            “I still miss her.”

            “Of course you do. You always will, as will I. Did you bring your mother’s blanket with you?”

            “Yes, I wanted to show _Jiddah_.” Her hand drifted over his wrist brace. “I still think you should have Mama’s blanket.”

            “That is not for us to decide. Your father gave it to her. He wants it to stay in the family. It rightfully belongs to you.”

            “But you are family. That’s something Papa never understood.”

            “Regardless, _habibati_ , the blanket should stay with you. It’s what your mother would want.”

            Talia guided his arm away from her shoulders so she could put his hand in her lap. Then she began to unfasten the straps of the brace, slowly, almost sensually. Did she know her nearness was driving him mad with desire? Over the years he had often wondered if she had made love to him only out of pity, figuring the mask and his lifestyle would forever deny him of a normal relationship with a woman. He always avoided discussing that night, for he did not want Talia to feel uncomfortable or get the impression that he felt any sexual ownership over her. They spoke of it only in passing innuendo, and even that had lessened as time went by. But the memory of that night had never faded for him. It sustained him on long, cold nights while at the same time torturing him.

            She removed the wrist brace and massaged where it had left impressions in his flesh.

            “It still pains you,” she murmured. “Doesn’t it?” She brought his hand up and softly kissed it, as he used to kiss her scrapes and bruises when she was a child. “It must if you still wear this.”

            “Perhaps I wear it simply because _you_ gave it to me.”

            She smiled at this, kissed his crooked small finger, a digit injured during his fall in the pit, now permanently bent at the second joint. Then she rested his hand upon his thigh, still clasped with hers. “Look,” she said as she dipped her other hand into her pants pocket. When she opened her fingers, there in her palm was a small elephant carved out of ivory.

            “The talisman Temujin gave you,” he said, smiling at the sight.

            “I still carry it always.”

            “Jin would be pleased. So am I.”

            “I miss him…all of them, especially Jin and Akar. Akar never hurt a fly. He didn’t deserve to die, especially so young.”

            “He wanted to leave with me when I was banished, but I encouraged him to stay, to look out for you whenever you visited the monastery. Looking back now, I wish I had had a way to take him with me. But what could I have done then? I didn’t even know where I would end up. Maybe I should have asked your grandmother to take him in.”

            “No, _habibi_. I know him; he would have left the monastery only with you, and he wouldn’t have stayed anywhere except with you. He loved you so much, admired you, even more than he used to admire Papa. He told me so in his letters.”

            The idea made Bane smile, squeezing her hand in gratitude. “He was a good lad. Someday we will avenge him, all of them—Choden, Sangye…” His gaze returned to the fire. “Someday.”

            “I have been paying attention to Gotham, especially because of the League’s plans for it, plans that are progressing according to schedule, I might add. Wayne will pay for his sins one day soon.”

            “And who told you that, if you aren’t communicating with your father?”

            A smile of her own curled the corners of her mouth. “I’ve stayed in touch with others in the League, of course.”

            “And they share such information?”

            “Not details, no, but I know the right questions to ask.”

            “Of course you do, little mouse.” Bane chuckled at her resourcefulness. “And what man could ever deny you?”

            She laughed quietly then looked at him sidelong. “I know of one man.”

            “Who?” he asked before realizing what she meant.

            “You, _habibi_.” She slipped the ivory elephant into her pocket then turned back to him, the fire altering the sapphire depths of her eyes to dark copper brown. Playfulness there, masking something else. Was it pain?

            “And what have I denied my _habibati_?” He withdrew his hand from hers so he could cup her cheek, his thumb caressing her skin, a grin crinkling the corners of his eyes.

            “This.” She covered his hand with hers. “Your touch, your presence, your strength.”

            “There are others in your life who can give you those things now.”

            “They can give me something _like_ those, yes. But no one can ever share what we have, what we’ve endured. I’ll never feel as close to anyone as I do to you. Don’t you feel the same way?”

            “Of course. And it would pain me to think you believed otherwise.”

            “You deny yourself much, _habibi_. I can see it in your eyes. I wonder, does Barsad deny himself the way you do?”

            “Of course not, but what I allow another man is irrelevant to myself. The League taught me discipline…in all things.”

            “But, for now, you’re outside of the League. You should allow yourself some sort of…pleasure, something to distract you from your cares.”

            He smiled appreciatively at her efforts. “I won’t pay to satisfy my base urges, _habibati_ , and in case you haven’t noticed, I don’t have the face of a movie star, so payment is my only avenue should I wish to venture in that direction.”

            “But surely after all this time you’ve—?”

            Bane shook his head once, his hand pushing her hair back behind her delicate ear with its tiny diamond star earring. Gently his fingers brushed against her ear, and she shivered, a faint curve of pleasure hovering about her lips.

            He could not stop himself from admitting, “I desire only you.”

            Talia’s smile broadened, inflamed him further. His uneven breath through the mask gave away his arousal. Her fingers drifted sensually across the front tubes of the mask, her index finger slipping along the grating that covered his mouth.

            “I can still feel your lips,” she said near a whisper. “Remember how I used to trace them with my finger when I was a little girl? I called them pretty, but you didn’t like that; you said pretty was for girls.” A faraway look overcame her, her attention still focused on the grating. “I didn’t know I was a girl then.”

            Bane tried to respond, but all words failed him under her touch.

            The mist cleared as Talia’s large eyes lifted to his, then she raised herself on her knees to lightly kiss the grating. His arms ached to envelope her, but he waited, closing his eyes, imagining the feel of her lips, her tongue.

            “You can take the mask off,” she murmured, her face still close. “You don’t have to be afraid. It’s just us.”

            “No…I prefer you see me this way. The other way will only hurt us both.”

            She frowned slightly, that familiar regret, that wish to go back in time and alter history. For a moment she seemed to consider arguing his point, but mercifully she did not. Her right hand slipped from the mask, down his neck, his chest, his belly. He was glad he had removed his back brace earlier, for he wanted nothing to impede her exploration.

            As her hand delved beneath the folds of the blanket, she said, “If you won’t allow me to kiss your face, I shall kiss you elsewhere, yes?” Then slowly she unzipped his pants and slid her hand the length of his rock-hard erection.

            As he savored her touch, his eyes closed and a small, starved grunt escaped him. With his right hand still entwined in her hair, his fingers tightened, his other hand finding hers beneath the blanket to encourage her, to show her what he wanted. As her strokes intensified, she began to kiss his neck, her other hand drifted upward beneath his shirt. With a moaning growl, he pulled the impeding garment off, hating to interrupt the progress of Talia’s lips even for that quick moment. She made a pleased sound as her lips trailed downward across the bulging muscles of his chest, the rise of his belly. He lost himself in her hair, bent forward enough to keep the scent of it in his senses. His gentle grip encouraged her head downward before her other ministrations could bring him too quickly to climax.

            When her mouth finally enveloped him, he brusquely pushed away the blanket; he wanted, needed to watch her. As her lips and tongue began to work their spell, he leaned back on one elbow. His pelvis surged to meet her movements, his other hand still in her hair, moving with her. He did his best to restrain the animal noises that welled up against the mask, his head thrown back the closer he came to release, control just a hair’s breadth away from abandonment. Then he could contain himself no longer, and a long, cathartic shudder stole his strength as he let go. His left arm slipped from beneath him, and he collapsed onto the folded comforter with a sated groan.

            For a long moment he was aware of nothing except utter helplessness, but the sensation was welcomed, not feared, and he lay unmoving to relish it. Talia kissed the insides of his thighs, as light as the touch of a feather, then her hands slid back up his sweaty chest as she lay beside him. She blew a soft sigh against his neck as she settled with one arm pillowing her head, the other hand tracing lazy patterns on his pectoral muscles.

            When he had recovered, Bane rolled onto his side so she could see the contentment in his eyes. His left hand brushed the hair back from her face then leisurely stroked the wild mane.

            “It seems,” he rumbled in amusement, “your education has not been limited to the classroom.”

            She blushed, her finger trailing up the mask to caress the various scars scattered about his head, including the League’s fading brand. “It’s just a game,” she murmured with a smile that was almost melancholy. “They are just boys really, even now.” Her finger drifted back down the mask’s center piece. “But you, _habibi_ , you are so much more, in every way.”

            “You are biased,” he teased.

            Her smile broadened as his hand slipped downward along her slim, graceful neck, exploring what his mouth could only desire. His fingers glided along her soft flesh, downward to languidly untie the delicate laces of the teardrop neckline that, until now, had allowed only a glimpse of her modest cleavage. Her black lace push-up bra could not hinder his rediscovery of the warm curves of her breasts. When his thumbs teased her nipples erect, she gave a tiny sigh and bit her lower lip, eyes closing as she enjoyed his caresses.

            Bane moved over her, drew off her shirt, followed by the rest of his own clothes. She lay on her back, eyes still closed, an expression of anticipation on her youthful face, her hands light against his biceps as if ready to clasp him to her should he stop. But he had no such intentions. His hand journeyed ever downward, across her flat belly then to the button of her linen pants. A moment later these, too, had been discarded, leaving behind sheer, black lace panties. His finger slipped along the edges, and she writhed with impatience, her fingernails now scraping lightly against his arms, willing him to touch her more boldly. He could smell her readiness even before his fingers stroked her wet heat. Her breath caught, and she moved her hips to encourage him.

            He wanted to pleasure her this way first, as she had done to him, but the hard truth was this: he could deny himself no longer. As he carefully penetrated her, his hand kept up its tortuous strokes, drawing soft, sharp moans from her that aroused him even further. Her legs wrapped around him, and her hands clutched at his arms, nails digging into him to draw him down to her so she could kiss his face, the mask, as they began to move as one.

            Unlike their first night together at the monastery, here there was no need for quiet, lest their lovemaking be discovered by her father. Here they were unfettered; except for Barsad and Hisham, they were alone in the guesthouse. So as his thrusts came faster and harder, Talia’s rapturous outcries increased, and when they at last reached the pinnacle, Bane did not care if they were heard all the way to the main palace.


	21. Chapter 21

            As the first traces of dawn crept into Bane’s room, he slowly awoke in his bed. Was it the gabble of birds atop the guesthouse roof that had stirred him or the gentle touch of Talia’s finger trailing lazily down the jagged scar on his back? He gave a low growl of pleasure and turned his head on the pillow to see her lying on her side, only the bed sheet covering her nakedness, keeping away the morning chill. Her sleepy eyes met his, and they both smiled. She withdrew her hand as he rolled onto his side, closer to her.

            Bane caressed her cheek. “I can’t tell you what it means to me to find you still here, in my bed.”

            Talia kissed his hand. “I should be getting back to the palace before _Jiddah_ finds me gone, but…” She brushed the sheet away from his torso. “I don’t want to go. I want to stay with you. Not just today, I mean—I want to go back with you and Barsad.”

            His fingers combed through her wild hair. “As much as I would love that, you must return to your studies. You have come so far. This is not the time to abandon your education.”

            “But I’m so tired of it, Bane.”

            “I know, _habibati_. But it’s a necessity if you are to one day lead the League.”

            “Me?”

            Through her surprised frown, he realized Talia had never truly considered the legacy her father’s eventual death would bestow upon her.

            “No,” she said. “Once Papa is gone, you will take command. And as Papa’s heir, I will have authority over our brothers to see it done.”

            Bane gave her a small, indulgent smile. “Let’s not talk of this now, _habibati_. Our time together is too short to waste on debating such things. Besides, your father has many years ahead of him.” _And_ , he thought, _I could be dead long before Rā’s al Ghūl meets his demise_.

            “Of course, you’re right.” She returned his smile as he drew the sheet away from her breasts. “But if you won’t let me leave with you, then at least promise me you will stay one more night.” Her probing hand easily rekindled the fire that had burned in him all night. “I will make it worth your while.”

            Bane chuckled deep in his throat. “I have no doubts of that, my love.”

            “Then won’t you promise me?”

            “What will I tell Barsad?” he teased.

            A slight rosy hue colored her cheeks. “Unless Barsad is a deaf man, I think he’ll understand your motivation for staying.”

            Her emboldened strokes drew another pleased growl from behind the mask. “You do have the power of persuasion, little mouse. But I told your grandmother that I would be leaving today. What will I say changed my mind?”

            “Tell her the truth.”

            Bane lifted a skeptical eyebrow at her, and she softly laughed. “Not _that_ truth. But just tell her you want to see more of me.”

            Now he drew the sheet completely off her. “I believe I have seen it all.”

            Talia gently pressed his shoulder back toward the bed, sliding over to straddle him. “No, _habibi_ ,” she murmured with a sultry smile, “you have only seen the very beginning.”

#

            Bane finished his morning coffee then replenished his mask’s crystals. Before putting the apparatus back on, he stared at it for a moment, absently turning it over and over as he remembered Talia’s invitation for him to remove it last night. Of course he had not done it, even when she encouraged him a second time, after the fire had died in the hearth and darkness consumed the bedroom. Perhaps it had been cowardly to deny her. Maybe exposing his wounds would not have repulsed her but instead would have given her strength, knowing that he had accepted them enough to lay himself bare to her. But he only frowned at this speculation, for he knew he could not take the chance of seeing even a hint of revulsion in her beautiful eyes, nor the familiar specter of guilt. And he would not spoil their next night together, for who knew if they would ever see one another again?

            After Talia had slipped away this morning, he had taken his time getting up. Hopefully her delay in leaving would not lead to any repercussions with her family. Bane sighed as he donned the mask once again, knowing he would have to endure repercussions of his own from Barsad. But the thought was not entirely unpleasant. He rather delighted in surprising Barsad with his behavior, as he had done on many occasions over the years, and this would be one of the more significant ones. As a man who regularly enjoyed the company of accommodating women, Barsad often puzzled aloud Bane’s restraint. Perhaps now his friend would understand.

            Barsad had arisen shortly after Talia’s departure—Bane had heard his door open and footsteps trail away down the stairs. A morning run. Perhaps to clear his head of what he had heard through the walls last night. Bane wondered if the sounds of his lovemaking to Talia had made Barsad think of his affair with Maysam. Bane frowned, for he hoped his own pleasure had not been at the expense of his friend.

            After Barsad returned from his run, he retired to his room. Bane expected his lieutenant to join him for breakfast, but surprisingly he did not. So, after eating, Bane took advantage of his solitude and went back to bed, for he had gotten little sleep and figured he would get very little tonight as well. The prospect made him smile, his thoughts tripping happily over memories of last night.

            He did not awaken until he heard Barsad’s door open and close and his steps retreat from the guesthouse once more. Bane glanced at the clock on his nightstand. Barsad was expected at the palace for lunch, with Bane to arrive a short while later. As with yesterday, Bane would not subject Maysam to seeing him eat without his mask. Surprised at how long he had slept, Bane finally crawled out of bed to shower, reluctantly washing away Talia’s lingering scent.

            Lunch was a long, leisurely affair, just the four of them again, this time sitting outside in the shade of a veranda that overlooked the inner courtyards. Conversation was much lighter and easier than yesterday, and Bane found himself uncharacteristically animated and jovial, so much so that he reined himself in out of concern that Maysam might somehow suspect the reason for his happy state. It was a foolish concern, for she did not know him well enough to be able to read such things, not like Barsad.

            Bane’s good mood seemed to amuse his lieutenant, though of course Barsad refrained from openly commenting about it in front of Maysam. But the curious, mischievous glint in Barsad’s pale blue eyes could not be hidden, especially from someone who knew him as well as Bane.

            Like Barsad, Talia seemed to have taken note of her lover’s improved demeanor, and she often teased him, making them all laugh. Fortunately, her more private glances were flashed discreetly, when her grandmother was talking to Barsad, glances that had a wonderful yet uncomfortable physical effect on Bane. Sometimes she was so distracting that he avoided even glancing her way, though at such times she put forth even greater effort to capture his attention. Although she had dressed conservatively for her grandmother’s sake, her blue and white dress had just enough cling to it that his thoughts often ran wild, and he could not wait for their night together.

            “I’m so pleased that you are staying one more day, Haris,” Maysam said when he and Barsad were about to head back to the guesthouse. “Are you sure I can’t convince you to come with me and Talia to Jaipur this afternoon?”

            Bane smiled. “I’ll leave the shopping to you ladies. No need dragging a man around when the two of you have so much to do, especially a man who looks like me. You will enjoy it more without me.”

            “Yeah,” Barsad said with a grin, “I’m sure they have a lot to talk about.”

            Bane’s spine stiffened at the remark, but he made sure the reaction never made it to his face. He allowed a look of caution in Talia’s direction. Talia, however, seemed quite pleased with Barsad’s inference, and the beautiful smile she gave Barsad as a reward managed to make the American blush.

            Bane and Barsad headed out of the palace, leaving all conversation behind. Striding loosely across the largest of the courtyards, which stretched away from the rear of the palace, the contentment from their conversation waned. Two women and several children were in the courtyard, enjoying the beautiful weather. Siddig’s relatives, Bane figured, for they bore no resemblance to Maysam or Talia. The children, having grown less fearful and more curious about their masked visitor, continued their games of chase and wrestling, keeping a wary eye on him as he passed, but no longer running away.

            The silence between Bane and Barsad lengthened, took on an altogether different feel, causing Bane’s fingers to twitch.

            Reaching the end of the courtyard, they passed through an ornate, green archway with a golden door that led to another courtyard, this one much smaller and empty. Their footfalls echoed around the square.

            “Speak your mind, brother,” Bane said at last. “There is something you wish to say.”

            “Maybe it’s none of my business to say.”

            “I will be the judge of that.”

            Barsad gave a small snort. “Who you sleep with is your affair, not mine. However, I have to admit it worries me.”

            “And why is that?”

            “To not tell me about Talia’s relationship with Maysam is somewhat understandable, considering the circumstances. But last night…” He gave Bane a sidelong, almost incredulous glance. “You told me who she is, but you couldn’t tell me the rest?” He waved a dismissive hand. “Like I said—you don’t have to tell me who you’re sleeping with, but your…behavior makes me wonder what else you’re hiding from me.”

            “You have told me all your secrets?” Bane challenged.

            “Damn near. And the ones you don’t know about aren’t relevant. But Talia…I have a feeling she’s beyond relevant to who you are. And I don’t just mean in the sack.”

            Bane kept silent until they had turned right and passed through another archway, its colorful peacock frescos familiar to him from his previous visit. In this next courtyard, the square, two-story guesthouse commanded the center, bordered on one side—the side facing the main palace—by an elaborately landscaped garden where Hisham was at work, cutting flowers, to freshen the vases throughout the palatial guesthouse.

            “Let us continue our discussion in the privacy of my room, brother,” Bane quietly said.

            “Fine. And, God damn it, I’m smoking.”


	22. Chapter 22

            Once in his room, Bane stripped off his shirt, for the afternoon had heated up considerably. By then Hisham had dutifully appeared to ask if he required anything. Requesting ice water for Barsad, Bane ignored the veiled look from Hisham, one of disapproval over what he had heard from this room last night. When the servant had departed, Bane settled in a chair near the cold hearth, facing out the veranda doors toward the main palace, thinking of Talia and Maysam leaving on their shopping trip.

            Barsad arrived just as Hisham set a pitcher and glasses on a small table beside the chair opposite Bane, then the servant quickly withdrew. Settling in the chair, Barsad downed a quick drink before lighting up a cigarette. He took a long pull as the silence stretched onward, his attention on a decorative mirror above the fireplace.

            “I would have told you,” Bane began, “about Talia and me—about our physical relationship, I mean—if there had been something to tell. I had no idea that she planned to stay last night.” He glanced at his contemplative friend, saw thoughts of Maysam in his eyes, realized that Barsad’s concerns about his behavior was as much for Maysam’s sake as his own; he would not want Maysam to suffer any scandal over the wanton behavior of her newly-revealed granddaughter. “Talia was careful to conceal her arrival and departure, I assure you. But do believe me when I say I had no idea she would…linger.” He expected Barsad to speak, but his lieutenant only nodded once and pulled deeply on the cigarette. “Talia and I had only been intimate once before, obviously before I met you. And considering the circumstances of that one night and the time that has passed since then, I had no reason to believe things would be repeated.”

            “I’m not begrudging you a good fuck. Hell, it’s nice to know you’re human now and then.” Brotherly teasing sparked momentarily in his glance. “But this isn’t exactly the time or place, you know.”

            “I understand your concerns for Maysam, but as I said, what happened last night wasn’t anything I had planned.”

            “But it’s why you decided to stay another night, isn’t it?”

            “Can you blame me?”

            “Shit, no. I’m a man, ain’t I?” Another lengthy pull on the cigarette and a leisurely jet of smoke aimed toward the ceiling. When the breeze through the veranda doors carried the smoke Bane’s way, Barsad moved his chair.

            “Talia will be discreet when she leaves the palace tonight, as she was last night.”

            “If it’s discretion we’re talking about, she might want to…uh…tone it down tonight so Hisham doesn’t hear.”

            Bane smiled behind the mask, stared toward the palace, thought of the sounds he had drawn from Talia last night like water from a well. Simply remembering made him hard.

            “Listen, brother,” Barsad took one last drag on the cigarette then stepped over to flick it into the fireplace. “We’ve been together a while now.” He leaned against the mantel, facing Bane. “And if we’re gonna continue with this working relationship, I’ve gotta know—right now—what else you’re hiding from me, personal or otherwise. It’s the only way this is gonna work.” He hesitated, and when Bane did not respond, he pressed on, “Back in Kargil, when we were prisoners and those agents took Talia’s picture, you weren’t only concerned with her safety, were you? Finding her would’ve led them elsewhere, wouldn’t it?”

            Bane remained silent a moment longer, weighing many things in his mind, including the value of Barsad not just as his right-hand man but as a trusted friend. He could see Barsad was not simply irritated about information being withheld on a professional level but on a personal one as well. Bane remembered what Nehru had said back on that mountain in Kargil, about Barsad looking up to him, revering him as an older sibling. And he thought of all Barsad had told him about the closeness of his relationship with his brother, a relationship with no secrets, with total trust. It shook Bane to realize Barsad wanted that same type of relationship with him. Though flattered by the younger man’s esteem, Bane thought more so of others he had grown close to in the past—Temujin, Akar, Choden—and the price they had paid for his inability to act: to stop Damien Chase, to stop Bruce Wayne. Because of those consequences, he had cultivated no such friendships since, yet here stood Barsad, very much a friend, in spite of Bane’s frequent distancing methods. But he realized he was on the verge of losing all that if he did not take a chance and trust Barsad completely.

            “Yes, it’s true,” Bane answered at last, quiet to ensure that even if Hisham were the kind of man to listen at the door, his words would not carry beyond Barsad’s hearing. “I was protecting more than Talia. I was protecting her father and his organization, the one I belonged to before I met you.”

            “The one you were thrown out of after killing the second-in-command.”

            “Yes. Talia’s father was very close to him.” Bane’s fingers twitched. “Those who belong to the organization dedicate themselves to its ideals, sacrifice everything for its goals, for justice throughout the world. Many have given their very lives, all of whom I called brothers. I’ve known no finer men. For the first part of my life I could not imagine such men existed. So to be included in their ranks…it was a great honor; it meant everything to me.” Bane turned a cold eye Barsad’s way. “All swear an oath when they are accepted into the organization, an oath of secrecy and silence. That oath is another reason why I’ve told you no details about my time with them. Men are not allowed to leave the organization. It is a safeguard against secrets being shared.”

            “Yet here you are,” Barsad gestured.

            “Yes, I am an exception because I protected Talia in prison as well as her mother. No matter how my final actions displeased Talia’s father, he cannot dismiss what I did for his wife and daughter. And he knows how much Talia loves me. Because of that, destroying me is not an option. My excommunication was strain enough on their relationship. Of course her father expects their rift to eventually be repaired, by time if not by anything else.”

            “And after all that, you’re still loyal to that…organization.”

            “As I said, I swore an oath, an oath to those who took me in when I had nowhere else to go. I would be nothing without them.”

            “And Talia has plans for you to return one day.”

            “Yes.” Bane smiled at the thought of her sweet, determined face. “She has always believed in me.”

            “But you don’t believe it’ll happen?”

            “As long as her father lives, I have no illusions about my place in this world.”

            “But when he’s gone someday, you would go back?”

            “If I could still be useful to them, yes. And if they would have me.”

            Barsad returned to his chair, crossed his legs, a thoughtful look on his face. “So this…brotherhood, if you went back to it, what is its mission?”

            Bane hesitated. “To ensure the world’s natural balance. It fights global corruption. It purges those who attempt to subjugate others with their wealth and the power that comes from it.”

            “Vigilantes?”

            Bane smiled indulgently. “I assure you their cause is far nobler than that of some regional criminal out for revenge.”

            “Like that bat character in Gotham we’ve been hearing about on the news?”

            “Yes. He is one man, concerned about one city’s underworld. We see a much larger picture.”

            “We? You say that like I’m included.”

            “I was referring to my brothers in the League of Shadows. But I believe you share some of their qualities, their goals. I see potential in you beyond our current activities.”

            A crooked smile, partly cynical, raised one corner of Barsad’s mouth. “So you’ve been recruiting me all along?”

            Bane chuckled. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. However, I can see you among the League’s ranks. You, of course, would need further training.”

            “The League of Shadows,” he said with mock dramatic flair.

            Bane nodded sagely.

            “Quite a mysterious name.”

            “One you will not share with others, of course.”

            “Of course.” Barsad’s grin twitched with his usual good humor. “You’d have to kill me then, wouldn’t you?”

#

            Most of the mourners left that day except for two of Maysam’s sisters, her brother Ayman, who lived in the palace, and Amir and his wife, Iba. The evening meal was for family only, so Bane and Barsad had their supper together on Barsad’s veranda. Afterward Bane waited impatiently for Talia to arrive, willing the sun to set early.

            It was nearly midnight before she appeared, cloaked in black like the night before. He had nearly despaired of her coming. She arrived through his balcony doors in an effort to avoid Hisham. This time they said nothing as Bane took her in his arms and drew her deeper into his unlit room, peeling away her clothing. She seemed just as eager as he, her fingers tugging at his shirt as her kisses trailed across the mask and his neck.

            As they made love through the night, Bane tried not to think of losing her in the morning. He told himself the night would go on forever; all that existed in the world was this warm, dark room and Talia in his embrace.

            But morning did come, painted pink and purple on the horizon, seen by Bane when he accompanied Talia to the veranda, her beauty now concealed by camouflaging attire. How could he let her go? When she turned to say good-bye, he impulsively pulled her back into the safety of the shadows.

            “I must go, _habibi_ ,” she murmured. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

            He held her close, their foreheads touching, his fingers pushing back the cowl to run through her hair a final time. She touched his mask, her other hand pressed over his heart, which he then covered with his left hand. They said nothing for a long moment as silent tears escaped her eyes.

            “I will see you again later,” he said gently, “before I leave, yes?”

            Talia nodded.

            He wiped away her tears. “Don’t cry, _habibati_ ,” he whispered. “I don’t want your tears to be my last memory of this night. You are too beautiful for tears. Nothing should ever be upon your face but happiness.”

            “I can’t help it. I already miss you.”

            “We have had our time together. Now you must forget about me and focus again on your studies…and your grandmother. You must help her in every way you can. She hides things from us to keep us from worrying about her, so I am counting on you to stay as close to her as you can. What she does not tell me, _you_ will tell me.”

            Talia nodded again, swallowing her tears. “When will I see you again?”

            “I don’t know. Hopefully sooner rather than later.”

            “Promise me you’ll come back here when I visit _Jiddah_.”

            “I can’t promise you when, but I will come back.” He touched her moist lips. “How can I stay away?”

            She gave him an appreciative but sad smile and kissed the mask’s grating.

            “Now, you must hurry,” Bane urged, “before the sun comes up.”

            They held each other one last time, then Bane remained in the shadows as Talia slipped away from him.

#

            They saw one another a few hours later when he and Barsad went to say farewell to Maysam, bags packed and taken to a waiting car by Hisham. They met on the ground floor of the palace, in the airy private audience hall with its sparkling chandeliers, unlit now in the early afternoon when sunlight through open archways on all sides provided ample illumination. The hall’s dominate color was that of deep red sandstone, trimmed in pale white that matched the marble floor. Bane reflected that the quiet, elegant room was a fitting place to say farewell to these two beautiful, strong women.

            When he saw Maysam’s face, he knew something dire was troubling her, something that went beyond her grief or the simple fact that he and Barsad were departing. Talia stood close beside her, speaking softly and urgently, clasping her grandmother’s hands. Barsad obviously picked up on Maysam’s drawn expression even before Bane, for he spoke first.

            “Are you okay? You look pale.”

            Maysam avoided everyone’s gaze, and Bane thought he detected a hint of moisture in her eyes. “It’s nothing.”

            “ _Jiddah_ , tell them.”

            Maysam tried to deflect Talia’s demand with a dismissive wave of her hand.

            “Tell us what?” Barsad pressed, frowning his concern.

            “This isn’t the time,” Maysam admonished Talia. “Bane and Barsad are due at the airport. Besides, there’s really no need to discuss it—”

            “Bane should know,” Talia insisted.

            Maysam closed her eyes, wavered, as if about to faint.

            “Come sit down,” Talia gently urged, drawing her to a bench near one of the archways, out of the sun but able to catch the small breeze on her face. She sat beside her.

            “What is it, Talia?” Bane asked.

            “Tell him, _Jiddah_. Or I will.”

            Maysam hesitated, still unable to meet anyone’s eye. At last she squeezed Talia’s hand, whispered, “Very well. Tell him.”

            Talia stroked Maysam’s hand to comfort her as she addressed Bane. “This morning Iba and _Jiddah_ got into an argument. It started out over something small, but then it got a bit out of hand.” With venom in her voice, Talia added, “Iba never should have said anything to her.”

            Barsad scowled. “What did that bitch say?”

            “Barsad,” Maysam managed a weak rebuke.

            “Sorry,” Barsad said, though with a definite absence of contrition. “What happened, Talia?”

            “Iba started talking about my mother, about her imprisonment. She told _Jiddah_ that the pit prison…” Her words caught and she exchanged a look with her grandmother.

            Maysam finished her sentence, quietly as if to keep the world from hearing, “The prison, then and now, belongs to my husband.”

            Barsad stared. “What?”

            Maysam nodded, silent tears escaping her. “He lied to me. He told me he didn’t know the location of the prison where our daughter had been taken. He claimed he had left it solely up to his men to ‘dispose’ of her. He said our daughter was dead to him, so where she was taken was irrelevant to him and would keep me from helping her.” She stared vacantly between Bane and Barsad, repeated softly, “Irrelevant.”

            “Iba should’ve kept her God damn mouth shut,” Barsad growled. “Where is that bitch? I’ll—”

            “The damage is done, brother,” Bane said with forced control, hiding his own boiling outrage over this disturbing revelation. “Confronting Iba isn’t going to help Maysam. No doubt she’s hoping to stir things up for her own gain, so don’t give her and her husband further ammunition to displace Maysam, if that is indeed their plan.”

            “Jesus, she just buried her husband,” Barsad continued to fume. “You’d think the conniving cow could’ve waited a few days before springing this on her.”

            “It was timed this way,” Bane surmised. “She knew Maysam would be seeing us off today. Iba likes neither of us, and I suspect she anticipated a reaction from one or both of us, to give her and her husband a reason for not allowing us to return. But we won’t give them any ammunition, will we, brother?”

            “How can you be so calm about this?” Barsad demanded. “Melisande’s _father_ owns the fucking—sorry, the prison where she died. He knew exactly what he was condemning her to. But he didn’t have the balls to tell his wife the truth.”

            Bane turned his eyes from Talia’s troubled, probing gaze to Maysam who was drying her face with a tissue. “What does Amir plan to do with the prison now that Siddig is dead?”

            “Iba said it will remain under the control of Siddig’s brothers.” Anger tightened her jaw. “If I had my way, I would see it destroyed. I would wipe it from the map.”

            Bane’s fingers twitched, and his mind flashed a thousand images at once. Not of the horrors he and those whom he loved had endured in prison but instead of things entirely different. The pit had been his home for twenty-five years, and thanks to his mother, Talia, and Melisande, it had been the only place where he had known absolute love. For that reason—and others—he did not want it to suffer Maysam’s end. Something niggled at him, the seed of an idea, a desire. There was a purpose left to the prison, Bane felt. A purpose that had brought this information to light at this moment.

            “Perhaps Siddig’s brothers could be persuaded to sell the prison,” Bane said.

            Maysam’s brow furrowed against the edge of her black _hijab_. “Sell it? No, it should be destroyed, if anything.”

            But Talia had caught his inference. “Bane, are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

            Barsad glanced between them, both curious and cautious.

            “I can think of no greater justice to be served upon the place, can you?” Bane asked.

            Now his meaning slowly overcame Maysam, the sorrow on her face turning to mild confusion. “ _You_ would buy the prison?”

            Bane nodded.

            “You?” Barsad echoed. “What the hell for?”

            “As I said,” Bane rumbled, “what could be more fitting than a former inmate taking control of such a place?”

            “So you’d buy it as some sort of revenge?” Barsad asked. “And what would you do with it?”

            Bane knew exactly what he would do with it, but he was not about to divulge that in front of Maysam.

            “You have money for such a deal?” Maysam inquired.

            “No, I don’t,” Bane replied with a significant glance between the two women.

            A small smile slipped to Talia’s lips. “But I do.”

            “Talia,” Maysam said in surprise. “No. The place should be closed down. And, besides, Amir would never sell it to you.”

            “Not to me, _Jiddah_. To someone he doesn’t know.”

            “He knows Bane.”

            “But he would not know the buyer and I are one and the same,” Bane clarified, pleased with how Talia’s thoughts ran alongside his own.

            “This is nuts,” Barsad said, turning away from Bane to pace through the archway and stand in the sun. “We need to go now. We have a plane to catch, remember?”

            Maysam nodded appreciatively to Barsad and got to her feet. “John is right, Bane. I’m sorry this was brought up. I told Talia we shouldn’t tell you.”

            “I’m glad you did. I’m sorry our conversation disturbs you, but I believe it’s important.” Then to Talia, who now stood close beside her grandmother, “We will speak of this another time, _habibati_.”

            Talia nodded with a small smile, one tinged with sorrow now that the reality of their parting was at hand.

            Bane’s expression softened as he said to Maysam, “Thank you for inviting us here and for your hospitality.”

            “You are welcome anytime, Haris.” She smiled at Barsad who had returned to Bane’s side. “Both of you. And if you should change your mind, my offer of employment remains.”

            Bane could tell Barsad wanted to embrace Maysam, but they all suspected that they were being watched closely from somewhere nearby, and so neither man touched her. But to Talia such things did not matter; she clung to Bane for a long moment, neither wanting to let go. Barsad cleared his throat, took a step back. For Bane, everything receded, and it was just the two of them, foreheads together, her hand over his heart covered by his own big paw once again.

            “Remember what I said, _habibati_ ,” he murmured. “Take care of your grandmother. She needs you more than she knows.”

            “I will,” Talia responded in a tiny voice, painfully reminding him of the day he had left the League.

            “And take care of yourself. Don’t worry about me.”

            “You know I will. But I also know Barsad will keep you safe.” She sent a convincing glance Barsad’s way.

            Barsad’s face reddened. “I’ll do my best, but God knows he takes too many chances.”

            Talia’s smile deepened his color, and she stepped forward to kiss his cheek. “If he gets himself too deep into trouble, you must let me know.” She glanced coyly at Bane. “Because I know he won’t.”

            “So he is to be your spy now?” Bane teased.

            They all chuckled, lifting the sorrow of the moment.

            Talia hugged Bane a final time, briefly kissed the mask, whispered, “Good-bye, Haris. Come back to us soon.”

            He returned her smile, caressed her cheek, brushed his finger against her sapphire earring, the pair he had given her when he had left the League. How well they complimented her stunning eyes. Had she worn them especially for him today?

            “We’d better go,” Barsad’s prompt broke Talia’s spell over Bane, and with a last farewell, the two headed out into the heat of the day.


	23. Chapter 23

            As the rest of the year slipped past, Bane could not help but keep tabs on the happenings in Gotham City, as did Talia. Each month brought more changes as the vigilante known as Batman thwarted organized crime at every level. Bane had to admit the mysterious character intrigued him with his obvious skills and the interesting technology used to achieve his ends. A man operating behind a mask. What was he hiding beneath his cowl? _Physical scars like me_? Bane wondered. No, no one had scars like his. Perhaps what Batman was concealing went beyond the physical. Was he a wanted man? Well, Bane considered, if Batman was not a criminal before now, he had made himself one—again a similarity they shared. But why clean up Gotham? Who cared anymore what happened to the city? Since the deaths of Bruce Wayne’s parents, the city had only decayed, and soon Gotham would pay the price for its corruption.

            Talia told Bane what she could about her father’s ongoing operation in the city, how the League of Shadows had infiltrated Gotham’s social order, from the underworld to the political stratosphere.

            “So you could say Dr. Wayne and his wife were killed by the League,” Talia said. “True, it wasn’t one of our operatives who pulled the trigger, but the city’s venality created Joe Chill, gave birth to him and many like him. Unwitting allies of the League. They say, at his parole hearing, Chill apologized for what he had done, but of course that did him no good. The Mob took him out.” Bane heard a smirk in her voice when she continued, “A flower may try to bloom in Gotham, but the weeds will always choke it to death. That’s why it’s the League’s time to take things into our own hands. This Bat character is delusional to think one man can make a difference in such a cesspool.”

            Bane grew restless in Chechnya, knowing it was not safe to remain in one place for so long. By winter he was looking for a new theater of operations. Barsad—motivated by growing boredom from being in one region too long—readily agreed to leave with him, and by mid-winter they were on their way to Mali in West Africa. A group of French investors had recently taken over a gold mine and wanted a new security force built from the ground up, a force with leadership from beyond the region and its deep corruption, tribal loyalties, and religious fanaticism. Bane was known throughout the world among those who required such men, and he had turned down many offers from others willing to pay his price. The mining company had not only matched Bane’s price but had nearly doubled it.

            One of Bane’s stipulations in accepting this new position had been in receiving a large portion of his projected earnings in advance, and not in cash but in gold and diamonds so it would not be as easy to trace.

            “With our combined funds, my agent thinks our offer will be enough,” Talia said. “He’ll present it to Amir and his brothers next week. The pit prison could be ours within a few weeks, _habibi_.”

            “As I told you before, I’m willing to wait until I raise all of the money myself.”

            “Why wait when together we may have what’s required?”

            “I would prefer your funds remain for your own benefit, as your grandmother does.”

            “This _is_ for my benefit,” Talia insisted, her voice ringing with determination through the phone. “I know I didn’t live in the pit as long as you, but having it in my—our—possession will be…cathartic to me, I think. To have control over the one thing that controlled us for so long. Doesn’t it give you a bit of a thrill to think on it, Bane?”

            He smiled at her enthusiasm, liking to think that this deal would help heal some of her wounds that remained from childhood. “It would be fitting, true enough, but I wouldn’t go so far as to say the purchase will thrill me, if it is to happen.”

            “It will. I can feel it. It’s fate, and true justice.” She chuckled. “Wait until I tell my father.”

            “Perhaps it would be best to keep it from him, at least for a while.”

            “Why?” Disappointment tempered her tone.

            “Talia, you must not forget that the pit left scars on your father as well. He might not have the same feelings as you about preserving it. And no doubt the money it will cost you will surely displease him.”

            “Or perhaps it won’t be that at all. Perhaps he will be jealous to see what we’ve accomplished without him.”

            “If you are using this as a way to goad your father, _habibati_ , then I caution against such foolishness. That is not the reason behind my designs for the pit.”

            “I know, Bane. And don’t worry—I won’t rile Papa…too much.”

            He easily imagined her mischievous grin, and it made him smile.

            Two months later the deal went through, and the pit prison belonged to Bane and Talia. Part of the agreement included assurances that the men already imprisoned there by Siddig and others would remain. If the buyers wished to purge the prison, they must agree to execute the current inmates. Bane, however, had no objections to maintaining the current population, including Doctor Assad.

            He dispatched one of his most trusted men, a Jordanian named Refai who had served him from the beginning of his time in Chechnya. Refai would learn the particulars of how Siddig had maintained the prison, including the supply chain and logistics. Bane himself would visit the prison when he was not so occupied in Mali.

            “When you do, I want to come with you,” Talia insisted.

            “No, _habibati_ , you will stay in school.”

            “I could come during my holiday break.”

            “I will not see you spend your holiday time on such a thing. You will visit your grandmother as planned. And you will say as little as possible about our acquisition.”

            “I won’t be able to keep it from her. She will ask about it now that it’s been sold. She knew we were interested in it. Surely you don’t want me to lie to her?”

            “Of course not. If she asks, you will be truthful. But after you tell her, you will not discuss it further; it would be unkind.”

            Talia tried a different angle, “Since I own part of the prison, I don’t see how you can deny me from going there.”

            Bane scowled behind the mask and growled into the phone, “Talia, you are still a member of the League. If the outside world ever learned of the prison and linked its ownership to you or the League, it could cause damage and anger your father. For all intents and purposes, the pit belongs to me and me alone. Tell me you understand this. Promise me you will not go there.” His tone deepened with rare intimidation toward her. “And promise me you will not free Assad if he still lives.”

            Foiled silence on the other end of the phone for a moment. “He’s becoming an old man, Bane. Hasn’t he paid enough for his mistake?”

            “Mistake?” Bane bridled. “What he did, what it cost both of us, goes beyond a mistake. I vowed, for your mother, that he will spend the rest of his life paying for what he did.”

            “But, just this once, can’t we show mercy?”

            “I have shown mercy—he still lives, does he not? I could have killed him long ago.”

            “ _Habibi_ ,” her voice trailed off in disappointment.

            “You heard me, Talia,” he said in the decisive voice of her protector, far from that of her lover. “Promise me you will honor my demand.”

            He could feel as much as hear her pout through her begrudging response, “I will promise you on one condition.”

            He growled again, letting her know his displeasure through the familiar sound. “What is it, you little minx?”

            “You will come to visit me and _Jiddah_ when I’m off on holiday.”

            “I don’t have time to travel. Maybe in the spring. Things are very unstable here. I have much to do.”

            “Don’t you want to see me?”

            “Of course I do. Don’t be coy. You know there’s nothing I want more. But I have an obligation here, a fresh, tenuous one. I must work to pay for the advance I received.”

            “Barsad can take care of things for a few days.”

            “Perhaps, but I’m not going to foist such responsibilities upon him so I can have a holiday. My employer would not be pleased, and neither would Barsad.”

            “Oh, _habibi_ …”

            “Don’t use that tone of voice,” Bane admonished, his body responding to her sultry tone.

            A knock sounded at the door to his office.

            “I must go, Talia. Someone is here to see me.”

            “We’ll talk about this again,” she vowed before saying a reluctant farewell.

            Bane set his phone on the cluttered desk and sighed, fingers twitching. The knocking had grown more insistent.

            “I know he’s in there,” came Barsad’s annoyed voice, answered by someone with a deeper, unfamiliar tone.

            “Come in,” Bane called.

            Barsad entered, followed by another man—a tall, burly African dressed in surplus military fatigues. The man halted just inside the door, his brown eyes keen upon Bane, expectant, curious. A jolt of recognition drew Bane to his feet, staring in disbelief. The mask hid his slack-jawed shock.

            “This fella’s looking for work,” Barsad explained, watching the newcomer closely but also flashing a curious glance at Bane. “Says he might know you.” His hand rested lightly upon his holstered pistol, but the large African seemed unconcerned by Barsad’s wariness, a wariness that would have necessitated a search of the visitor for weapons before being admitted. “Says his name is Mohammad Adeyemi.”

            “Yemi,” the African clarified with a small, cautious smile.

            A rush of memories overwhelmed Bane, emotionally staggering him and for a moment rendering him immobile, speechless.

            “Bane?” Barsad prompted, his fingers closing upon the pistol.

            “Yes, brother,” Bane forced himself back from his memories of the pit. “I know this man well. We were in prison together.” He lumbered around the desk, extended a hand in greeting, which Yemi readily accepted, now grinning with relief. “It’s good to see you, old friend.”

            “The feeling is mutual, of course.” Yemi said to Barsad, “Bane saved my life.”

            “And Yemi saved Talia’s life,” Bane added. “When she was just a babe. You will remember the story, Barsad, about the time an inmate snatched Talia from me to extort money from Melisande’s family.”

            Barsad’s watchdog persona visibly eased, allowing a smile. “Yeah, I remember.” Immediate appreciation relaxed him further, for over the months since meeting Talia, Barsad had begun to develop a friendship with her through occasional phone conversations. Now that Bane no longer had to conceal everything about her, the two men had talked of her at great length, with Bane sharing more about their time in prison. Barsad’s respect for what Bane had endured in the pit had naturally extended to Talia, a respect that now showed in his eyes when he looked at Yemi.

            “I knew Bane when he was just a skinny boy,” Yemi said, taking obvious delight in his privileged knowledge. “But look at him now, standing there with the strength of a gorilla. You easily outweigh me, I would guess.”

            “Yemi was the second best fighter in the pit,” Bane said.

            “Yes, only the second best. I never could defeat Hans.”

            Bane offered Yemi a seat. Barsad made no move to leave but neither did he sit. His innate protectiveness of Bane would not allow it.

            “Speaking of Hans,” Bane said, “have you kept in touch with him or Abrams?”

            “Not closely, no. The last I knew Hans was still in Germany. Opened his own gym a few years back. Abrams was working for a security firm out of Berlin, last I heard.”

            “And what about you? What have you been doing all these years?”

            “A variety of things. I’ve worked for a couple mines the past five years, in different West African countries. Then I heard about a mysterious masked man heading up security here in Mali. Of course you wore bandages instead of a mask when last I saw you, but when I began to hear descriptions of you, I had to satisfy my curiosity.” His smile was warm. “Hans will be pleased to hear you are well, my friend.”

            “You said you’re interested in work,” Barsad reminded him.

            “Yes, I am,” Yemi insisted. “If you will have me.”

            “We can always use more men,” Bane said. “I would be honored to have you.”

            After he offered Yemi a cup of coffee, Bane settled into a comfortable chair near the office’s single window, one that looked out upon the vast, main pit mine, the processing plant and its bustle of activity.

            “You spoke of Talia,” Yemi said. “Have you kept in touch with her?”

            Bane felt Barsad’s immediate unrest at this new subject, their glances meeting briefly. “Talia is well,” Bane replied. “She is in university. I saw her several months ago. She has grown into a fine young woman. She will be pleased to hear you are working for me.” He watched Yemi sip the coffee, let the easiness of their reunion drift away before he spoke again, this time in a decidedly colder tone, “There are some things I must caution you about, Yemi, things that must remain strictly between us if you are to work for me.” _Or_ , Bane privately considered, _if you are to remain alive._

            “Whatever you feel is necessary,” Yemi said, his large hands encircling the Styrofoam cup.

            “You must not speak of Talia to anyone. Nor will you tell anyone of our prison connection. I hope you have not already done so.”

            “Only to Barsad,” Yemi said.

            “Very good,” Bane nodded. “I know you will understand when I say the less that is known of me, the better. For my safety and the safety of those whom I protect.”

            “Of course,” Yemi rumbled, the slight deepening of his tone reminding Bane of the day Yemi had served as judge when he had stood accused of his first murder. The Nigerian had been one of the few men in the pit with integrity, and so he had often been among those impartial inmates selected to sit in judgment of others when prison rules had been violated.

            “My men all live on the property,” Bane said. “Barsad will show you to your quarters when you leave here. Did you carry in your own weapons?”

            “Just a handgun.” He grinned. “One I was immediately relieved of when I came onto the property.”

            “You, of course, can appreciate our caution.”

            “Of course.” Yemi took a long drink before continuing, “When we last parted, I understand you were determined to find your father. I hope you had your reunion?”

            “Yes.” Bane tried to hide his scowl. “But the results were not what I had hoped for.”

            “Such things often aren’t. But at least you know who your father is. I never knew mine.”

            “Died when you were young?” Barsad inquired.

            “No, I just never knew who he was. My mother was a victim of rape.”

            Embarrassed by his slip, Barsad cleared his throat and reached for the pack of cigarettes in his breast pocket. But when he caught sight of Bane’s raised eyebrow, he grumbled and instead retrieved a cup of coffee.

            Apparently eager to leave such a subject behind, Yemi asked, “What of Temujin? Did he stay with you or return to his home?”

            Bane frowned, surprised at how much the question pained him, even after all this time. “He stayed with me for a time, but I’m sorry to say he died a few years ago.”

            “Died? He was young still.”

            “His…work was dangerous. He died in the line of duty.”

            Yemi seemed to pick up on Bane’s reluctance to expound, and so let the subject drift away. They spent several more minutes reminiscing, mainly discussing Hans, Abrams, and Talia, but other matters of the mine demanded Bane’s attention. When they parted, Yemi shook his hand again, this time with a warm smile.

            “I’m glad I found you, old friend.”

            In that moment Bane realized how glad he was as well. Yemi was one of the rare positives about the pit prison, about his past. Their reunion felt almost like a homecoming of sorts. Like Temujin, Yemi understood all that he had gone through, something that even Barsad could not comprehend, no matter how much Bane might dare tell him in moments of weakness.

            With a parting grin, Yemi said, “Perhaps we will have that match we never had, when you were foolish enough to think you could best me.”

           Barsad, opening the office door, laughed. “He might still be a fool, but my money’s on Bane.”


	24. Chapter 24

            Bane awoke before his alarm, as was often the case, especially in summer when the days were longer. Even inside his air conditioned bedroom, he could tell the day was going to be a particularly hot one. He hated the heat, humidity and the blazing Mali sun.

            “Just be glad you aren’t a miner,” Barsad often pointed out.

            Bane had been to the bottom of the immense mining pit several times. The heat was worse down there where no breeze seemed to ever reach and dirt rose up in choking clouds, a golden brown, shattered landscape like something from another planet. On the worst summer days it was something akin to hell. Bane avoided it as much as possible.

            The television in his adjoining office was on, and the smell of fresh coffee told him that Barsad was already up. His lieutenant’s room was at the opposite end of the mobile unit from his. He heard the ding of the microwave and caught the faint aroma of bacon. Barsad always tried to have his meal eaten before Bane emerged, but today Bane lumbered into the office just as Barsad was taking his first bite of a breakfast sandwich. He was seated behind Bane’s desk and had propped up his feet, but when Bane entered, he quickly took his feet off the desk, a sheepish grin amidst the heavy stubble on his face.

            “Check this out,” Barsad gestured toward the small television in one corner of the office as he vacated Bane’s chair. “Something big went on in Gotham last night. Some sort of terrorist attack.”

            A jolt of energy stiffened Bane’s spine, but he did his best to hide his interest as he turned to the television. GCN was all over the story, though it was still nighttime there. Headlines crawled across both the top and the bottom of the screen, reporting casualties and utility outages. Live pictures showed what must have once been the site of a large fire in the lower level of a city building. The twisted, burned remains of a commuter train—Gotham’s famous monorail that the Wayne Foundation had built—lay amidst the rubble of a parking garage. Blackened, shattered automobiles littered the scene where fire crews were still directing hoses upon the smoldering chaos.

            “How did the train end up inside a building?” Bane asked as he half sat on one corner of the desk. He folded his arms to keep his fingers from twitching, especially where Barsad could detect the familiar tic. His heart had quickened its pace at the sight of Gotham’s fresh wounds.

            “They’re not completely sure yet. One report says Batman had a hand in it.”

            “Why would he destroy a train?”

            “They say it was carrying something, some sort of weapon.”

            “For what?”

            “I haven’t caught everything yet, but they’re saying the device was used to vaporize Gotham’s water supply. Some sort of chemical was released into the air.”

            “To what effect?”

            “Some sort of hallucinogen. On top of the shit storm that caused, the inmates at Arkham got loose somehow. They’re still trying to round them all up.”

            “Has any group claimed responsibility?”

            “Not so far. The cops have some nut-job under arrest. A doctor who worked at Arkham. No doubt he had a hand in freeing all the whackos. God knows why. He must be as fucked up as his patients. One report said he once worked for the Mob, so some are speculating that organized crime is behind it all. One of their kingpins was recently committed to Arkham, so maybe this was a way to break him out.” Barsad took another bite of his sandwich and shook his head. “Seems like overkill to drug everyone in the Narrows just to free one man.”

            “How does Batman figure into all of this?”

            “They say he was on the train to stop the device from reaching the city’s main water hub. Once it got there, the whole city would have been affected by the drug. But apparently Batman wasn’t able to control the train and stop it, so he crashed it instead.”

            “Did he survive?” Bane tried to keep the hope from his voice.

            “So the cops are saying. Some are calling him a hero. First he cracks down on the Mob, then he saves the city from terrorists or whatever they were.” Barsad chuckled. “Have to admit, the guy’s got balls.”

            From his bedroom, Bane’s mobile phone began to ring. At first he was going to ignore it, but the reports flashing across the television reminded him who the caller might be. Talia might be seeing these same images. So he returned to his room, showing no hurry lest Barsad pick up on his anxiety. Unfortunately this effort caused him to miss the call. But when he picked up the phone and saw Talia’s number listed as the previous call, it began to ring again. As he answered it, he closed his door.

            At first all he heard was sobbing. The gut-wrenching sound sent sensations of cold water running down the scar on his spine, causing him to shudder.

            “Talia? Talia, what’s the matter?”

            She struggled to speak. “Papa… Oh, Bane… Papa…”

            “What is it, _habibati_?” Scenes from the television haunted him. Was it only coincidence, those images and the League’s plans for Gotham? Or had Rā’s al Ghūl been in the city, the cause of all Bane had seen on the news? The timing could be right… “Talia, has something happened to your father? Are you safe?”

            “He’s…he’s dead, Bane. Papa is dead.”

            The sobs came harder now, driving Bane downward to the edge of his bed. The cold spread from his spine outward to every nerve ending in his body, numbing him as he stared in disbelief at the wall’s wood paneling.

            “They said it was him…Bruce Wayne,” Talia said. “He’s the one who killed him.”

            Her words made no sense. “What?” Desperately he tried to regain his senses and understand, tried to claw free of the overwhelming sorrow that battered him like a large wave. “Who told you that?”

            “Finn Donnell. He said Papa went to Wayne Manor…before the operation in Gotham began. He went to kill Wayne, to keep him from interfering.”

            “Interfering how? Talia, you aren’t making sense.”

            “Bruce Wayne… He’s the Batman, Bane. Papa knew this. I think he’s known all along, but he kept it from me.” Talia paused to gather herself, to allow her hatred of Wayne to give her strength; Bane could sense her effort, could hear it in the change of her tone.

            Of course, Bane thought. It all made sense. Batman and his vast resources. Someone like Bruce Wayne would have access to such things. And only someone like Wayne—trained by Rā’s al Ghūl himself—would have such abilities. Bane easily recalled Rā’s standing in his usual way—hands gripping his lapels—in the dojo at the monastery, observing Bane’s training, and telling him how theatricality and deception could be used as weapons, especially against those of weak mind and body. And who was more theatrical or deceptive in Gotham than the Batman? Of course Rā’s would not have told Talia. If he had, then she and Bane would have been proven right about Wayne’s true nature, that he was not to be trusted, that he would never be anything but an enemy to the League of Shadows.

            “So everything that happened in Gotham last night,” Bane said, “was the League’s operation? It wasn’t something related to the Mob, like the news is reporting?”

            “It was Papa. It was his plan. The microwave emitter was stolen from Wayne himself, Wayne Enterprises.” She sniffed back her tears, and he could almost detect justified smugness in her voice before she began to weep again. “And Papa’s plan, all of it, would have worked if Wayne hadn’t interfered. Papa was on the train with the device, taking it to Wayne Tower, but Batman…Bruce Wayne managed to get on the train with him. But Wayne escaped before the train crashed, before _he_ crashed it, he and a cop he was working with.”

            “Talia,” Bane forced calm for her sake. “Are you someplace safe?”

            “Yes, I’m in Monaco, with Phillip’s family.”

            “It might not be safe for you there, _habibati_.”

            “I’m not afraid.”

            “But if your father’s body is identified—”

            “No…” The sobs overcame her again as she said, “There is no body to identify. The fire…the explosion…our brothers got there first. There was nothing…nothing left.”

            Bane pressed his eyes shut. Grief over Rā’s, sympathy for Talia, all seeming to steal the air from the room. He began to pace around the small space. The television’s volume had been lowered, and he knew Barsad was concerned by his disappearance into his room. There would be no hiding this from his lieutenant. Even the mask would not be able to conceal his rage and sorrow.

            “When Finn called me,” Talia continued, speaking of the League’s regional commander in North America, “he said something else, too. He said…” Her voice failed her.

            “Talia, are you alone?”

            Her weeping clawed at him, caused his fingers to twitch with the desire to destroy something, someone. He should be with her. She needed him, and he needed her. Only together could they weather this latest storm.

            “Talia? _Habibati_ , can you hear me? Are you alone?”

            “Y—yes,” she replied, barely audible, as if she were drowning, just out of his reach.

            “Is…?” He ground his teeth together. “Is Phillip there with you?”

            “He and his parents went out for breakfast before Finn called. They should be back soon. What am I going to tell them?”

            “Tell them your father was killed in an accident. Nothing more. Then I want you on the first plane out of there to your grandmother’s.”

            “Will you come, too?”

            “Yes, of course. As soon as I can.”

            This seemed to bring her comfort, for her sobs lessened, and she weakly said, “Thank you.”

            “You started to tell me something Finn said to you. What was it?”

            “Oh, Bane…” she managed in a strangled voice. “He said because I am Papa’s heir that I must consider what his death will mean for me, for my future and the League. He didn’t go into it any more than that. He just said he wanted me to think about it and that Papa had told him if something should ever happen to him, I should take over for him.” Her tone raised slightly, near panic. “I—I don’t know if I can do it, Bane, not without Papa. How could I ever continue his work the way he would want? I know so little about the day-to-day operations after all this time. What if our brothers don’t want me as their leader? I couldn’t blame them if—”

            “Talia,” he halted her rush of words. “There will be time to think on that later. I don’t want it overwhelming you. You must first take care of yourself. Let me call your grandmother for you. I will tell her to expect us soon.”

            “I wish you were here,” she said faintly.

            “We will be together soon. I promise. And things will become clearer then. For now,” the next words were bitter on his tongue, “take solace from Phillip’s family. But don’t let them talk you out of leaving as soon as you can.”

            “I won’t.” She sniffed back her tears. “I will feel so much better when I’m with you and _Jiddah_. Maybe I should call her instead.”

            “You don’t have to be so brave, _habibati_. Let me do this for you. She will understand. If you feel up to it, call her from the airport, yes? She will want to hear your voice.”

            “She will be so sad,” Talia murmured. “She had her differences with Papa, but she knew how much Mama loved him, and she appreciated how he came to your rescue and took care of me.” The tears began to return. “I shouldn’t have been so horrible to him. He’s been asking to see me lately, more than usual. Since Wayne destroyed our home and injured Papa, I did try to stay more in touch with him, _habibi_. I did.”

            “I know, little mouse. But you mustn’t think about such things now.”

            “How can I not? He’s dead, and I’ve given him nothing but grief over the years. He gave me so much. I know that what he had planned for me with Bruce Wayne was wrong and horrible, but I know he loved me. And he did rescue you and give you a home, even if things went wrong in the end. If it wasn’t for Chase, maybe Papa would never have sent you away. He must have regretted it after a while, especially…at the end…when he realized how right we had been about Wayne. Oh, Bane…”

            “ _Habibati_ ,” he pleaded, “you must stop. It does no good to speculate about any of this. Your father was a great man. He loved you, and he knew that you loved him.”

            “How? I hadn’t told him I did, not after what he did to you. And he died without hearing it from me in so long.”

            “Talia.” He wanted to drive a fist through the wall, so desperate was he to be there for her. He could never endure her being bereft of anything, and the last thing he wanted was for her to blame herself in any way for her father’s tragic demise. She had enough guilt still over his own injuries. Could she bear any more? “Talia, you must stop this and listen to me. Your father loved you. If that wasn’t true, would he have told Finn to tell you what he did? Of course not. And you loved him; he knew it.”

            “How could he?”

            Bane sighed in frustration, desperate for a way to soothe her. “Remember when you were just a little girl in prison and all the trouble you gave me?” He tried to smile, to convey that expression through the phone. “Even when I would reprimand you and you would say you hated me, I knew better, didn’t I?” He waited for her answer. “Didn’t I, little mouse?”

            “Yes,” she said at last, sounding less pained now.

            “And you knew I wasn’t truly mad at you when I would scold you, did you not?”

            “I knew.”

            “Of course. And that’s how it was with your father. After all, he knew your mother, didn’t he? And you are so much like her—full of passion. He would not have wanted it any other way. I saw how he used to watch you at the monastery, how proud he was, how much he loved you.”

            “Oh, Bane,” her voice trembled. “I know. I just wish I hadn’t—”

            “No regrets, _habibati_. He would not want it so.”

            “I can’t help it.”

            “I know. But you must try.”

            “After Mama, I never thought I would feel this way again. I hate it.”

            “You must channel your grief, Talia. You must use it for a new purpose.”

            “Yes,” she said thoughtfully, “a new purpose. And you know what that will be, _habibi_?”

            “Of course.”

            “Bruce Wayne will pay for what he’s done. He thinks he’s saved Gotham from the League.” Her voice hardened with amazing swiftness. “But all he’s done is condemn it. I’ll see to it.”

            Bane smiled behind the mask, pleased to hear a rallying of her strength.

            “And if I don’t lead the League, then you will,” she vowed.

            “No, such leadership belongs to Rā’s al Ghūl’s heir.” He paused near a small window that looked out upon the huge mining pit. “And, if you decide to accept that mantle, I will do everything in my power to serve you…to the very end.”


	25. Chapter 25

            Talia and Maysam, dressed in black, stood just where Bane had last seen them nearly a year ago—in an open archway leading into the palace’s audience hall. Back in the shadows, Maysam’s brother, Ayman, stood like a sentinel. When the two women saw Bane, their expressions opened with relief. Talia rushed into his arms and immediately began to cry.

            As Bane embraced her tightly, he closed his eyes, and in a terrible instant he was back in the pit prison the day Melisande had been murdered. After the heinous deed had been done, he had held Talia close for the rest of the day and through the night, for the five-year-old had been too terrified to let go of him. And he would not have wanted it any other way, for he too had taken comfort in the closeness of the one he loved. If only he could have saved Melisande, just as he now wished he could have saved Rā’s al Ghūl so his daughter did not have to suffer such depthless sorrow all over again. If only he had been in Gotham, he could have been on that train instead of Rā’s. He could have defeated the Batman and made Bruce Wayne pay for all that he had done to their family.

            Since hearing the news of Rā’s’ death, Bane had mastered his own emotions and vowed not to allow Talia to see his pain. To do so would only compound her grief.

            “I’m here,” he murmured in her ear, the cursed mask making his words sound coldly metallic. “I’m here now. It’s going to be all right.”

            “I’m so glad you’ve come,” Talia said, her face buried in his chest, her sweet scent filling him.

            Maysam drew near with a small, sad smile, the sun beating down upon her face, a face that seemed to bear more lines than the last time Bane had seen her. She gently touched Talia’s shoulder, not to encourage her to break away from him but to share in their pain. Bane could tell she was envious of their physical display, and if not for her brother’s stare Bane would have reached out to her. He could sense her loneliness since her husband’s passing, her uneasiness over Amir and Iba taking up residence at the palace as Barsad had feared. She looked thinner now, almost a bit frail, and Bane bristled at the thought of Siddig’s relatives making her unhappy.

            “Come inside,” Maysam softly said. “Out of the sun.”

            Talia dabbed at her eyes, forced herself to step back from Bane. He touched her face, his thumb wiping at the wet trails on her cheek. She put her hand over his, swallowed her tears, as if not wanting Ayman to see them when she reluctantly turned back toward the audience hall. Maysam slipped an arm around Talia, drew her close as they slowly trailed inside. Talia maintained her grip on Bane’s hand, even when Ayman’s displeased glance touched them.

            “Hisham has prepared your suite, Haris,” Maysam said. “You have had a long journey. Rest and refresh yourself before coming to see us.” Now in the cool, dimly lit hall, she turned to offer a tempered smile. “I’m so glad you were able to come.” Her crooked finger caressed her granddaughter’s cheek. “We have both missed you.”

            “Barsad couldn’t come?” Talia asked.

            “I left him in charge. Him and Yemi. It was the only way I could get away.”

            “Yemi,” Talia said, the hint of a smile banishing some of her sorrow. “I would love to see him again.”

            “Perhaps one day you shall.” Bane’s eyes returned her smile. Even in her grief, her beauty could not be dimmed. “He often asks about you.”

            “Come along, child,” Maysam urged Talia. “Let Bane rest. We can all catch up in a bit.”

            Talia gave him a parting hug and thanked him again for coming. Then she squeezed his hand and at last freed him.

#

            Evening had come by the time Bane returned to the palace. He had eaten supper alone and knew those in the palace would be through eating by the time he arrived. He was escorted to the spacious room where Barsad had first met Talia after her grandfather’s death. On the way, he had seen Iba in passing. The exotic-looking woman had cast him a displeased glance before stepping from the hallway into a room and closing the door. Bane felt his hackles rise. Perhaps it was time he met Amir El Fadil and had a few words with him and his wife.

            Talia had regained her composure, and color had returned to her face. A light application of fresh make-up made her sapphire eyes seem even larger, and when they turned to him upon his entrance, he saw a glimmer of happiness temper the clouds of heartache.

            They talked until well after dark, mainly about Rā’s but also about many other things, some of them pleasant diversions to allow them respite from their sorrow. Bane did what he could to make Talia smile and even laugh a couple of times, but he found himself wishing Barsad were here. His lieutenant was more skilled than he at banter and anecdotes, though often at Bane’s expense. Thinking back to his arrival that day, he knew Maysam had been disappointed that Barsad had not accompanied him. Bane frowned behind the mask, wishing he could have brought Barsad with him for Maysam’s sake. Perhaps now that time had passed since Siddig’s death and she had not remarried, Barsad would have been a much-welcomed distraction. Bane remembered how his lieutenant had almost flirted with Maysam the first day he had met Barsad. The warmth of intimate companionship had brightened both Barsad and Maysam that day.

            Once Talia began to yawn and fight to keep her eyes open, Maysam urged her to retire for the night.

            “Are you going to bed, too?” Talia asked Bane as she stood and stretched.

            “Shortly. I want to talk to your grandmother about a couple of things first.”

            Talia twitched a curious eyebrow and smiled. “That sounds mysterious.”

            His eyes smiled back. “I assure you it’s not. You and I will talk about it later.”

            He hoped she noted his use of the word “later” instead of “tomorrow,” though at the same time he berated himself for thinking of his physical needs over her emotional state. Nor should he hazard being obvious in front of Maysam, for he did not want to dishonor her in any way or act as if he were playing her the fool.

            Talia kissed her grandmother’s cheek. “Good night, _Jiddah_. I love you.”

            “I love you, too, _habibati_.” Maysam kissed her back.

            Talia paused beside Bane’s chair long enough to kiss the top of his head where the League’s brand had faded closer to obscurity. His flesh tingled where her lips had touched him. Though he smiled his appreciation, he did not trust himself to meet her gaze again, not while he was remembering lovingly tracing the brand on her back…her smooth, flawless back.

            “I won’t keep you,” Bane said to Maysam after Talia had left. “We are both tired. But I wanted you to have the night to think over what I am about to say.”

            “What is it, Haris?” Maysam leaned slightly forward on the sofa. Her glance went to the door as if anticipating her brother or Amir. They disapproved of her and Talia being alone with Bane, and if they knew it was just the two of them now, they could very well demand that he leave.

            “What I have to ask of you is important, but it could also be dangerous for you and your family.”

            “You know I will help you however I can. You mustn’t hesitate to ask anything of me.”

            Bane frowned. “Thank you, but I wouldn’t ask if I felt there was a viable alternative. It’s just that—”

            “Haris.” Maysam’s eyes—so painfully like Melisande’s—stifled his explanation, disarmed him. Then her fingers ever so lightly, ever so briefly touched his hands where they were clasped on his knee. Her smile, though small, conveyed her inner strength. “You are like a son to me. And what mother would ever deny her son anything?”

            An unexpected lump rose to choke Bane and keep him from answering for a long moment. His reaction seemed to both please and sadden Maysam, and he knew she was thinking about his mother’s absence from his life, just as he was. He had always known Maysam’s appreciation for all he had done for her daughter and grandchild, but he had never suspected that she felt at all maternal toward him. It seemed so improbable, especially since he was a grown man. But then he remembered his mother once telling him, “Even when you are grown, you will always be my little boy.” Bane realized such depth of feeling would always be beyond his male comprehension. A mother’s love, as his mother had often told him, was unique and above all other types. It must be, he admitted, for why else would he feel this moved after hearing Maysam refer to him in such a familial way?

            “Now,” Maysam said, settling back on the sofa, “what is it you want to ask me?”

            Bane cleared his throat, rested his hands on the arms of his chair. “As Talia has told you, the men of her father’s organization have contacted her about assuming command.”

            Maysam almost laughed. “She’s still a child, as I reminded her. Of course she cannot accept such a position. I cannot believe they were so foolish to suggest it.”

            Bane frowned. “It was not foolishness that prompted them, I assure you. These are highly intelligent men.”

            Maysam tempered her reaction. “My apologies, Haris. I meant no offense.”

            “None taken. I know it is difficult for you to understand—you are her grandmother, after all—but Talia was trained in the same manner as myself, as her father. She is, in truth, no longer a child. She is Henri Ducard’s heir. I know over the years she has not told you everything about the League, and rightly so. She, like I, swore an oath.”

            “But, Haris, you are talking as if you are still part of the League.”

            “True enough, Talia’s father excommunicated me, but I remain loyal to my brothers…and to his memory. We had our differences, and there are things for which I cannot forgive him, but he did save my life, and he gave Talia a life, a path, something my father refused to provide for me.”

            Her expression softened once again, that motherly sympathy.

            “As Ducard’s heir, Talia has the right to assume her father’s role. Whether she accepts it is up to her, not me or—forgive me—even you. But, rest assured, if she does, I will petition to be reinstated in the League, to protect and serve her. You will have no need to worry about her.”

            Some relief eased the lines around Maysam’s mouth, but he could tell she still did not approve of her granddaughter being anything other than a carefree, happy woman, leading a life of which her daughter had been cruelly denied.

            “Before any decision is made,” Bane continued, “the hierarchy of the League—our regional commanders—want to meet with Talia. That is what I want to ask of you—to allow the meeting to take place here. I feel it would be the safest place, especially in light of recent events in Gotham. And having the meeting here would allow Talia to remain longer with you. I will suggest to her that she spend the rest of the summer with you, regardless of the outcome of the meeting.” And away from that cursed Phillip, he thought with added satisfaction.

            “And what of her schooling? She is so close to her degree.”

            “I will insist that she return to Oxford in the fall and complete her program.”

            “But if she agrees to take her father’s place—?”

            “Regardless she will remain at Oxford for her final year. As I said, her brothers in the League are intelligent men, highly capable of continuing their work with little direct oversight.”

            “Then why do they need Talia?”

            Bane hesitated, trying to find a way to help Maysam understand. “The League has endured for centuries, centuries of tradition. Strong leadership has been passed down throughout its history. It is vital. Henri Ducard was one of their greatest commanders. It would be dishonorable, especially considering his martyrdom, not to pass the mantle onto his heir.”

            “But that is man’s work, a succession that should devolve upon a son, not a young woman whose life is just now beginning.”

            Bane wished she could see his appreciative smile behind the mask, wished he could adequately bestow confidence and assurance in her, but he knew he could not override her grandmotherly instincts. Her son-in-law was dead, just as her daughter was. The new dangers presented by the League’s requirements of Talia would, of course, terrify Maysam.

            Gently he said, “You and I both know Talia is no ordinary woman. How could she be, considering who her parents were?”

            Maysam frowned and stared at the gilded coffee table in front of her. “I can’t lose her, Haris,” she said near a whisper.

            “I understand. Trust me, I feel the same way. But we can’t outrun our destinies. Trying to do so never works, and some would say it cowardly. We must let Talia make this decision on her own. It doesn’t matter whether you or I encourage or discourage her; she is very much her own person—she always has been, even as a small child. She will resent any pressure one way or the other.”

            “You are right, of course.” Maysam’s glance flickered toward him long enough for him to see the hint of tears there—tears of fear as well as pride for her grandchild. “But shouldn’t we allow her more time to heal before she has to make such a decision? Can you postpone the meeting?”

            Bane smiled at her attempt. “No organization can survive for long without strong leadership. We can’t put off what is inevitable.”

            In a last ditch effort, Maysam suggested, “What if you were to take the position?”

            “It is not my position to take. Remember, I am no longer a part—”

            “But if they accept you back… You are qualified, so much more than Talia. Surely they will welcome your leadership.”

            “There’s no way to know that. Besides, Talia is the rightful heir. As I said, the choice is hers, and hers alone. That is how our brothers will see it. That is the way it’s always been.”

            Maysam gave a gentle sigh of capitulation.

            “So will you consent to having the meeting here? Will your brother-in-law allow it?”

            Now some of Maysam’s fire returned, her back stiffening. “It is not up to Amir.”

            Bane nodded and softened his tone further. “Then will you allow it?”

            Maysam’s hands moved restlessly in her lap, her gaze searching the darkness beyond the tall, facing windows.

            “If the meeting does not occur here,” Bane gently insisted, “it will happen elsewhere. But for the reasons I’ve already told you, I would prefer it take place here.”

            Maysam struggled a moment longer, and then she at last turned to him with a desperate plea in her eyes. “Promise me, Haris… Promise me you will be by her side should she accept her father’s path. Regardless of whether or not the League reinstates you, you will find a way. You will always protect her.”

            “Always,” Bane said. “We have my word.”


	26. Chapter 26

            Although Bane did not expect to see Talia that night, she appeared outside his veranda doors an hour after he returned to his room. The doors, of course, were not locked, so she slipped soundlessly inside. As in the past for their rendezvouses, she was dressed darkly, but the night was far too hot to allow the usual cloak.

            “ _Habibati_ ,” he said, taking her in his arms for a brief embrace. “You shouldn’t be here; you should be sleeping. You didn’t have to come. You must think of yourself first.”

            “I can’t sleep. And, besides, I wanted to give you something.” She freed herself of a small bag slung across her shoulder.

            “You should have waited until tomorrow to give it to me.”

            “No. I don’t want _Jiddah_ to know. Not yet anyway. I will tell her later.”

            This piqued his curiosity, and he followed her as she carried the bag to his rumpled bed. As she reached inside, he drew closer but not too close, for he did not want to assume she had come here for anything other than her stated purpose.

            Talia slowly withdrew the article from the bag, a smile blooming, returning some color to her drawn cheeks. Bane’s breath caught. He dared not believe what he saw. She turned to him, holding out a precisely folded blanket—Melisande’s blanket.

            “Talia,” he barely found his voice, her name almost inaudible from behind the mask. “No—”

            “It’s yours now, Bane.” She pressed it to his chest, but still he did not take it from her. “I want you to keep it.”

            “No. Your mother would want it to stay with you.”

            “She would want me to do with it whatever I wish.”

            “But your father—”

            Her smile had died with his protests. “Papa can no longer deny you this, or anything. It’s for me to say now.”

            “I can’t accept it, Talia. It should remain with you. I want you to keep it.”

            The hint of a pout darkened her eyes as she unfolded the blanket, the fabric brushing down the front of his tight-fitting tank top. Talia’s scent was heavy upon it, and he closed his eyes to steel himself. He felt her reaching up, coming in close so she could drape the blanket around his shoulders.

            “But I want _you_ to keep it, _habibi_.”

            “No.”

            She waited for him to open his eyes before she took a step back. A shadow of her smile had returned. “Then if you will not accept it as a gift, I simply ask that you keep it for me, so it remains safe and preserved.”

            Afraid the blanket would slip to the floor, he anchored it with one hand. The familiar feel of the faded fabric made his heart swell, just as his heart used to swell when he would return to the mountains after a mission and come within sight of the monastery. A warm welcome, the pleasant sensation of being home. He told himself to hand the blanket back to Talia, but he found now that it touched him, he could not. Instead he caressed the colorful patterns of flowers, remembered seeing it for the first time with Melisande, how it matched the golden brown of her skin before the prison’s darkness had paled her complexion. He thought of the comfort it had given him and Talia after her death, the one thing that remained of her.

            When his eyes at last raised from the beloved blanket, he realized his vision had misted, but he did not attempt to hide his emotions from Talia, for he could see how pleased she was by his reaction. “Very well, little mouse. I will keep it for you. It will travel with me always.” He smiled, his fingers twitching with desire to touch her, his erection painful in the confines of his pants. To distract himself, he carefully began to fold the blanket.

            Smoothly she drew it back before he got far in his efforts. “No,” she said. “You must use it, just as I have since we left our mountain home. It’s comforted us both over the years. It should continue to do so.” She lovingly spread it on his bed. “There. That’s where it truly belongs.”

            With a will of its own, his hand gently took hold of her long, single braid, the silken strands precisely woven. As she straightened from the bed, he brought the braid forward across her shoulder. He trailed his fingers to the end where it rested upon her breast. It took all his skills of self-control to contain himself.

            “You must get some rest, _habibati_ ,” he hoarsely said. “I can tell you have slept little since your father’s passing.”

            “I don’t want to go back to my room. I don’t want to be alone.”

            He frowned, searched her face for some glimmer of desire, but her grief had engulfed even that. His heart broke for her.

            “Then you will stay here. Come.” He stepped around her and drew back Melisande’s blanket. “I will fetch something to help you sleep, then I will wake you before sunrise so you can return to your room before your absence is discovered.”

            He was surprised by her immediate acceptance of his plan, and this capitulation told him much about her emotional state. She sat dutifully upon the bed, and he knelt to remove her shoes as he used to do in their prison cell before retiring for the night. But he went no further in his efforts to undress her. Instead he turned to his bag to retrieve a dose of morphine while she disrobed lethargically and freed her dark mane from the braid.

            Once she was settled beneath her mother’s blanket, Bane injected the morphine.

            “It won’t take long,” he promised. “Just a few minutes.”

            She watched him cap the needle. “Does the drug still work well for you?”

            “Well enough.” He forced a smile and hoped she was convinced. The truth of the matter was he required not only stronger doses of morphine when he removed the mask to eat but also a stronger formula for the crystalized cocktail of drugs that fed the mask. But he would never tell her this. One day, though, he knew she would stop believing his dismissive responses to her inquiries.

            “Aren’t you coming to bed?” she asked softly, again with a complete absence of sensuality.

            “I will, after you fall asleep.”

            Talia gave him a weary, sheepish smile and shifted onto her side, facing him, as he drew a chair beside the bed. “I’m sorry, _habibi_. I’m not much fun tonight, am I?”

            “There’s no need to apologize, my sleepy little dove. Simply having you here is enough for me.”

            Her smile grew pensive. “Thank you.” She reached out to him, and he leaned slightly forward so their hands could rest together on the bed. “What did you and _Jiddah_ talk about?”

            “I asked her if our brothers can come here to meet with us.”

            Her eyes brightened. “What a good idea. What did she say?”

            “She agreed, though of course she is not happy about the League’s interest in you.”

            “It’s hard for her to understand. I talked to her about it a bit before you arrived.”

            “Considering who your grandfather was, I have a feeling it’s more a matter of concern for your safety and happiness than it is an inability to understand. After all, she’s spent most of her life surrounded by men who live dangerous, violent lives. Her exterior is soft, but we both know she is as strong as a rock.”

            Talia smiled with pride. “I admire her so much.”

            “As do I.” Though self-conscious about revealing his feelings, he added, “She told me I am like a son to her.”

            “What a wonderful thing to say. But of course she would feel that way. How could she not? We both know how much she wanted to give Grandfather a son when they were first married, and she wanted so many more children than just Mama. To have others would have perhaps made it easier for her to bear Mama’s situation.” She squeezed his hand. “You’ve made us both very proud, _habibi_.”

            Embarrassed by her praise, he busied himself with drawing Melisande’s blanket over her naked shoulder, successfully hiding her tempting breasts from view. His fingers lingered upon the blanket’s rustic weave, savoring the feel of it, smoothing the fabric against Talia’s curves.

            “Enough talk,” he chided. “Close your eyes and let the drug take you away. Close your mind to all negative energy. Think of our old home, of sitting by the fire with your hot chocolate and a good book.”

            Obediently she closed her eyes, his imagery drawing a smile to her beautiful lips. “Remember how you used to read to me and Mama?” she said in a voice growing heavy from the morphine. “I loved to close my eyes and listen to your voice as I imagined things from the stories. It would take me far away from the pit.” Her grip upon his hand began to relax.

            To lull her, he used small strokes of his thumb against the back of her hand. His other hand gently brushed the hair back from her oval face. She smiled dreamily at his touch, and within another minute she gave a small sigh and drifted into a deep sleep.

            For half an hour he remained in the chair, happily watching her, his hand still holding hers. The sight of her here in his bed, in his possession and no one else’s, brought contentment at last, and sleep began to overcome him. Carefully he withdrew his hand and silently removed his clothes. Then he edged his way into the large bed without disturbing her and just as solicitously lay on his side behind her, close, the edge of the blanket beneath him. With equal care, he slipped his arms around Talia, drew her against him as he used to do in prison. Then he lay with the mask close to her hair, breathing in the clean scent of her. With a happy sigh, he at last closed his eyes and allowed sleep to claim him.

#

            The air conditioning in Bane’s room kept the summer heat of Rajasthan at bay. Hisham had brought additional chairs to accommodate Bane’s guests. Daichi Sao, Finn Donnell, and Guy Giroux sat uneasily amidst the guesthouse’s opulence, men used to being in the field, not a palace. They were the League’s regional commanders—Donnell in North America, Giroux in Europe, and Sao in Asia. They had avoided the carnage that Bruce Wayne had wreaked upon the League’s Himalayan headquarters by being at their posts at the time, a fortunate circumstance considering the number of vital men who had been lost in that single, tragic instance.

            Talia was seated on Bane’s left in their impromptu conference circle. A week had passed since the death of Rā’s al Ghūl, but the shadows of his passing remained heavily upon Talia, reflected in her black attire. Indeed, since her father’s death, Bane could see an emotional and physical transformation, the response of someone who was born to lead, just as her father had been. He admired her fortitude and used it to bolster his own spirits.

            “Thank you all for coming at such short notice,” Talia began, smoothing her long skirt. She spoke in French, as would everyone in this meeting to ensure Hisham or anyone else in the guesthouse could not understand their conversation. “It is a difficult time for all of us. I know how much my father meant to you, and it’s a comfort to share my grief. Finn was in Gotham, of course, so he had the unenviable task of reporting my father’s death to me. I want to say, in front of everyone here, how much I appreciate your efforts in Gotham and in serving my father during the operations.”

            The sharp-eyed Irishman bowed his head in acknowledgement, but his expression remained unreadable. He was a small man with deceivingly benign features, pale of skin and dark of eye. Finn had been with the League many years, and Bane had worked with him on a couple of operations, so he knew him well. A fierce fighter and a commander his men could admire and follow easily. His roots were firmly in the Irish Republican Army, an organization for which his father and brother had given their lives.

            Guy Giroux spoke to Talia with a small smile, “All of our brothers extend their condolences to you, and they have pledged to avenge your father’s death in any capacity that may serve you.”

            “Thank you, Guy,” she returned the smile with warmth.

            Bane’s fingers twitched. Giroux had always been a charmer with women. He often used those skills in the line of duty, though Bane wondered if sometimes his liaisons were as necessary as Giroux claimed.

            “As you know,” Talia continued, “I had…separated myself from my father these past few years. I regret that now, of course, as I will for the rest of my life.”

            Bane gave a soft growl and started to chastise her, though he knew he should not in front of the others. But Talia raised her hand to hold his comments at bay, no doubt thinking the same as to her assumed authority here.

            “And because of my estrangement and time away, I’m afraid I might not be able to serve the League in a manner worthy of my father.”

            Bane’s fingers twitched again, and he had to bite his tongue not to protest her self-deprecation.

            “Your father would disagree,” Finn said in his worn-down Dublin accent. “I can tell you that in all honesty. In fact, he predicted you would feel this way and told me to caution you against it, should you still be estranged when he relinquished command.”

            “The estrangement,” Bane rumbled, “is my fault. Our brothers don’t hold it against you, Talia.”

            “Bane is right,” Sao said. “No one has ever spoken against you.”

            Giroux smiled with understanding. “We were all young once, Talia. We know how emotions often drive someone of your age. But, having said that, we also know you are mature enough to understand the importance of the legacy your father has left you.”

            “Aye,” Finn said. “As we discussed last week, the three of us talked to as many of our brothers as we could reach before coming here. They offer overwhelming support to you and whomever you appoint as your second-in-command.”

            Color pinked Talia’s sculpted cheekbones, and she looked down at her hands in her lap. She wore a simple leather bracelet that her father had given her, set with a single sapphire that matched her eyes. Rā’s had presented it to her when she had been a mere child, but the bracelet still easily fit. She had worn it always, until Bane’s excommunication. The fact that she had not completely discarded it those years ago told Bane that she had indeed still loved her father.

            “Thank you all,” Talia said softly to the attentive men. “Your loyalty and confidence in me is flattering and humbling. But the fact remains that I have much to learn about the day-to-day operations of the League. Because of that I feel my second-in-command must be someone I am completely comfortable with, someone who can step into a role that will require much of him until I am more capable of taking on greater responsibility.”

            “Of course,” Finn said, his eyes flicking toward Bane.

            “If I am to assume my father’s position,” Talia continued, expression set with resolve, “I will reinstate Bane to the League. This is nonnegotiable and an absolute necessity. Though Bane has been away from the League for some time, I know he will have no trouble assimilating back into our ranks. As you know, his work since leaving the League has been demanding and dangerous, and it has augmented the leadership skills he already displayed while in the League. He will be nothing but an asset to us all.” She paused long enough to touch her father’s bracelet. “We both understand that some of our brothers—perhaps even you—may have some reservations because of the circumstances surrounding Bane’s excommunication.”

            “Chase’s death,” Bane rumbled his clarification, again wanting to deflect any possible blame from Talia.

            “True, there are some who might have a moment’s pause over it,” Sao allowed. “But, as you know, a man’s personal opinion is secondary to his allegiance to the League. All of our brothers will uphold any of your decisions, Talia. I am confident of that.”

            Finn and Giroux nodded.

            “All the same,” Talia said, “I feel I must offer some insight into that day, especially in light of what happened in Gotham last week. I know Bane has never spoken up in his own defense regarding his excommunication—”

            “Nor should _you_ now,” Bane said as gently as he could, though he wanted to growl the protest. He hoped his stare alone could convey his displeasure.

            “I know my father never shared all of his plans for the League, not even with Damien Chase,” Talia continued, undaunted. “Of course anyone in his position has to guard such secrets until it’s necessary to reveal them. Well, one of them was his plan to see me wed to Bruce Wayne. This was even before my father recruited Wayne and made the fatal mistake of bringing him into our ranks.” Her words had grown clipped and veiled with hostile bitterness. “Before Bane’s final mission with the League, the one in which he and Chase were to protect Bruce Wayne in Shanghai, Bane expressed his concerns about my father’s plans for me. I think it goes without saying that my father did not take kindly to Bane’s remarks. Bane wasn’t just trying to protect me; he was trying to protect the League. He knew Wayne could never truly help us, directly or indirectly, so he felt the mission was flawed, and once things went sideways and Temujin was lost, Bane again expressed his feelings to my father about Wayne. Papa, of course, viewed Bane as dangerously insubordinate; he would not stand for it.” She turned to Bane, and her expression softened. “But I believe my father’s decision to excommunicate Bane wasn’t for the good of the League; there were personal issues involved, ones tied to my mother and our time in prison. They blinded my father to the wisdom of Bane’s concerns about Bruce Wayne.” She turned back to the three commanders. “And now here we sit today, with Bane vindicated and my father murdered.” She smiled ever so slightly. “So you can see, gentlemen, why it makes sense to reinstate our brother.”

            “We anticipated your request and discussed it at length before coming here,” Finn said, “so consider this a formal consent.”

            “That is,” Giroux said, “if you are indeed accepting the League’s leadership.”

            Bane found himself holding his breath while Talia considered them all. An image returned to him from the monastery, a time in the Great Hall when Talia, just a child then, had sat upon her father’s large, golden chair—she called it a throne—and had declared herself queen. Bane had scolded her for sitting in the forbidden chair, and only after half-hearted threats did she relinquish her perch.

            “One day you may be a queen,” Bane had said. “But not today.”

            Now when he looked at Talia beside him, he saw none of the child left in her. Her father’s death had stolen the last vestiges of youthfulness. In its place was a new resolve, a hardness that almost pained him to see. But he knew it was necessary.

            “I will accept my birthright,” Talia said at last, a chill in her voice. “And together we will fulfil Rā’s al Ghūl’s destiny. Gotham will be destroyed.” Her eyes darkened. “And Bruce Wayne will pay for his betrayal.”


	27. Chapter 27

            “Something is troubling you, _habibi_ ,” Talia murmured, her finger lazily tracing his pectoral muscles, her hair—tousled from their lovemaking—spilling against him. “What is it?”

            Bane grunted, staring up at the ceiling to avoid her probing gaze. She lay atop him, warm and soft beneath Melisande’s blanket. “Of course I am troubled—I must leave you today.”

            “No, it’s something more than that.”

            Realizing it was foolish to think he could hide anything from her, he forced a smile and gently tightened his powerful arms around her. “Old habits, my love. Nothing more. I am used to protecting you and being the one in charge, so to speak. It seems just yesterday you were calling me Ba-ba and riding about the stepwell on my back. But now so much will fall on your shoulders, and you’re still so young. I’m simply worried about all of these changes hitting you at once.” He frowned. “You were having nightmares last night. I had to wake you twice.”

            Talia rested her chin on his chest. “I’ll be fine…Ba-ba.” She grinned and winked. “I’ll have plenty of time to adjust. The transition will be slow while I finish school. And in the meantime I know things are in good hands—yours.” She kissed his nipple. “Aren’t you happy that you’ll be back with our brothers?”

            “Of course. But we’re not talking about me, are we? I’m concerned about you. You are strong like your mother, like your grandmother, but you—like me—have been away from the League for so long.”

            Her finger drifted across the front of his mask, distracting him. “I would be lying if I told you I wasn’t a bit afraid. I mean, it’s a great responsibility to uphold my father’s ideals and legacy. Some of our brothers are not as open-minded as Sao, Finn, and Guy. But I have a way to test myself, my strength.”

            “Test?”

            “Yes. I’m going to the pit prison.”

            Shocked, Bane pushed himself back against his pillow. “No, Talia. We discussed this already—”

            “Yes, we did discuss it, but we did not resolve it. Now, more than ever, I feel I must return there, now that I have accepted my new role.”

            “Why?”

            “To test my courage.”

            “You’ve already passed that test, Talia—the day you climbed out of the pit.” He made no attempt to soften his voice or expression, for he wanted her to feel his anger.

            “I climbed out of fear, Bane. Returning there, climbing _down_ will take courage. I want to see if I am still afraid. If I am, then I have no right to lead our brothers.”

            “You have every right.” He sat up. “We own that place now. There’s no need for you to go back there.”

            Talia’s expression softened, as if he were a troublesome child. “ _Habibi_ , you went back there.”

            “Yes, to punish my grandfather for what he did to my mother, to me. It is no place for a woman.”

            She sat up, eyes narrowing slightly, pride flaring. “Surely you don’t think me weak simply because I am a woman.”

            Caught in his blunder, Bane scowled. “Of course not.”

            Her hand drifted along his hip, Melisande’s blanket slipping from her shoulders. Beyond Bane’s balcony doors, the first hint of dawn had begun to fade the night’s cloak.

            “You should be heading back to the palace,” he said.

            Her gaze lowered to where her hand glided along his flesh. “When I return to the pit, I will dress as a man, of course. And I can take some of Amir’s men with me for protection, but I would prefer if you came instead.”

            “And what will your grandmother say about this?”

            “I have no plans to tell her. It will worry her.”

            “As it should. Talia, if you go there and your sex is detected—”

            “Then I will die where my mother died.”

            Though he knew she was merely using such words as a tactic to acquire his assistance, it pained him nevertheless to hear her talk this way, as if sharing her mother’s fate would be an honor. Of course with her father’s murder fresh upon her soul she would naturally think even more than usual about her mother’s murder.

            Brusquely he captured her wandering hand, and she gave a small gasp of surprise. She did not pull away, however. Instead she balled her hand into a fist and met his eyes with a challenging glint. He realized now—more than he had two days ago when they had met with their brothers—that she had changed. Her father’s death, her acceptance of her new role, and the pressure of expectations—her own as well as the League’s—had all contributed to this transformation.

            Her threat had killed his anger, and when he spoke, the words breathed quietly through the mask, “Don’t ever say such a thing, Talia.” He freed her wrist and drew Melisande’s blanket between them. “It would break your parents’ hearts to hear, as it has mine.”

            The defiance left her, replaced by shame. She hastened to sit beside him, taking his hand. “I’m sorry, _habibi_. But I must do this. I will do this.” She kissed his fingers, slowly. “And if you will come with me—to protect me—I promise I will never go to the prison again.”

            Though he tried to make his expression harsh, it was difficult to concentrate on anything but the velvet touch of her lips and the sensual movements of her tongue. He growled and drew her back into his arms. “Perhaps your father was right—he should have matched you up with Bruce Wayne. The man would never stand a chance against you.”

            “I will meet him in time, rest assured. But it will be on my terms and no one else’s. Once I’m through with my studies, I will go to Gotham. We know who Gotham’s wealthiest, most influential men are. One of our own brothers is among them, and he will be able to introduce me to their society. I will become one of them, someone they trust, someone they include.”

            Bane tried to conceal his concern, his abhorrence at the thought of Talia being coveted by any of Gotham’s rich despots. “Surely you don’t mean to pursue your father’s original plan?”

            “Marry Bruce Wayne?” She scoffed. “Never. Besides, since his return to Gotham, he pretends to be a disreputable playboy to help hide his Batman identity. Marrying anyone would destroy his narcissistic cover.”

            Bane gave an inward sigh of relief.

            “So,” she said, her finger trailing over the mask, “will you come with me to the pit?”

            In frustration, he growled again, his hand tangling amidst her wild mane, closing around a fistful and pulling her head back. She smiled, the tip of her tongue caught between straight, white teeth.

            “It will require more than myself,” he grumbled at last. “And not any of Amir’s men. Word might get back to your grandmother. You may wound me with your stubborn demands, my love, but I won’t let you hurt Maysam.”

            Talia frowned, adequately shamed again. She sighed. “Then who?”

            Bane freed her hair, stroked her head once before his hand traveled downward to her shoulder, her breast. His thumb teased her nipple erect.

            “Who?” she persisted, obviously wanting to seal their deal before he grew completely distracted.

            His finger traveled up her neck to her chin then her lips, but she kept her mouth closed and raised an eyebrow at him.

            He smiled and said, “I have a couple of men in mind.”

#

            “So how’s Talia holding up?” Barsad asked as he settled into his usual chair against the wall opposite Bane’s desk.

            His lieutenant looked particularly boiled by the African sun, and his eyelids were heavier than usual, belying his fatigue. But he wore a tiny smile in the corners of his thin, defined lips, revealing his relief that Bane was back. Surely Barsad had not feared that he would not return at all. While in Rajasthan, he had spoken but once to his lieutenant, and that had only been because of a pressing issue at the mine. Otherwise Barsad had respectfully left Bane alone so he could focus on Talia and the League.

            “She is doing well, all things considered,” Bane said.

            “Is she going to stay with Maysam the rest of the summer?”

            “Yes, I did convince her of that.”

            Barsad nodded, fingered the pack of cigarettes peeking from his breast pocket. “And how’s Maysam?”

            “I am a bit concerned for her because of Amir and Iba. Maysam didn’t express any issues with me, but I highly doubt she would. So before I left I had a little chat with Amir.”

            “Oh, shit.” Barsad grinned. “Was there any neck snapping?”

            “You jest of course, brother.”

            “Of course,” Barsad deadpanned.

            “Overtly threatening a man like Amir might lead to ramifications for Maysam once Talia is gone. But rest assured I made it plain that Maysam is not to be harassed. She will be allowed to live peacefully in the main palace for as long as she wants.”

            “And how did Amir the Snake take it?”

            “He understood the subtext. Hopefully his wife will as well.”

            “Ever snap a woman’s neck?” Barsad twitched an eyebrow, a gleam of hope still in his sky blue eyes.

            “Not yet.”

            “Ah, good—you’re not ruling it out.”

            Bane could not conceal a small smile, and he realized he had missed Barsad and his smart-ass humor.

            “So how did the meeting with the League go?”

            Bane’s smile drifted away. “It went well.”

            “And is Talia going to take her father’s place?”

            “Yes.”

            “You don’t sound too pleased. I thought you wanted her to do this.”

            “I do. But, like Maysam, I’m worried about the amount of responsibility suddenly being shouldered by one so young, especially after suffering such a devastating loss. Talia feels great guilt for being estranged from her father, and I fear that guilt might drive her to recklessness.”

            “I’m sure if it comes to that, she’ll listen to your metallic voice of reason, brother.”

            “I’m not as confident of that as I was a short while ago.”

            The lightheartedness left Barsad. “Why? Did she say something specific to you?”

            “No. But I know my Talia. This has already changed her, and I fear it will continue to do so.”

            “But we all change, Bane, especially someone her age, faced with what she’s faced with. Are you sure you aren’t overreacting? You are, after all, sometimes like a hen clucking over a chick with that one.”

            “Brother,” Bane admonished, “there is nothing of the hen in me. What I sense is through instinct, not simply love.”

            “If you say so.”

            Bane allowed the moment to pass. He tossed aside a pen that he had been holding when Barsad had arrived, then he got out of his seat and lumbered to the window looking out onto the mine’s maw. In a less defensive voice, he continued, “Something else came out of the meeting with the League.”

            “Yeah?”

            Bane turned back to him, and the serious look from behind the mask immediately sobered Barsad even more. “Talia demanded my reinstatement in the League.”

            Barsad did his best to hide his surprise. “And did they agree? Did you agree?”

            “Yes.”

            Barsad nodded thoughtfully, a muscle twitching in his jaw, and he looked away from Bane. “So when do you leave?”

            “I will remain two more weeks here to make sure things are in order and new leadership is in place.”

            “But you’re under contract to them. How will you repay the money they advanced to you when we signed on?”

            “The League will take care of it.”

            This ambiguous answer drew Barsad’s attention back to him. “And who’s to succeed you?”

            “Would you like to make a recommendation?”

            “Me? That’s your call, brother. But I can think of one man to do the job, if you can’t.” He scowled slightly.

            Bane continued the game for his own amusement, “I can think of few qualified among our ranks, so to whom do you refer?”

            “Jesus, Bane.” Barsad held his hands out to either side. “Me, for fuck’s sake. Are you serious?”

            Now Bane allowed a chuckle, and he returned to sit behind the desk.

            “What’s so God damn funny? I’ve done the job whenever you aren’t around.”

            “Indeed you have, brother. And capably, I might add.”

            “Then what?”

            “I actually have another position in mind for you.”

            “What? There’s no other position.”

            “Not here, no.”

            “Then—?”

            The inference finally reached Barsad’s scruffy face and cleared all disgruntlement.

            “I want you to come with me,” Bane said.

            “Come with you?” Barsad stammered. “If I’ve understood you correctly all this time, joining the League isn’t exactly like walking into a McDonald’s and asking for the privilege to flip burgers.”

            Bane almost chuckled at his friend’s bewilderment. “True enough. You would need to undergo intensive training, and unfortunately that will deprive me of your services for a time, but I’m confident you would be accepted. That is, if you are interested.”

            Barsad reared his head back and eyed Bane, as if suspecting this were one of their brotherly jokes. Bane often toyed with him in such a way as revenge for one of Barsad’s many annoying pranks.

            “Did Talia ask you to do this?”

            “Of course not.”

            “Does she know you were gonna ask me?”

            “No. I saw no sense in telling her. She will find out once you give me your answer. Having taken her father’s place, she will be the one to approve or disapprove any man I recruit.”

            “Why would you want to recruit me? Seems to me you’re taking a big gamble.”

            “I don’t look at it that way.” Bane paused. “I trust no man, Barsad, no man but you. So why do you look so shocked over my offer? Talia has made me her second-in-command, and I will need someone I trust to be my lieutenant.”

            “I’m sure the League has men more qualified than me.”

            “True, the League is comprised of extraordinary men, but we lost some of our best not long ago when our base was destroyed. And as I said, I trust no man, not completely, not even my League brethren. I have not remained alive as long as I have without that level of caution. That will never change for me.”

            “Who says I’d wanna join you and your merry band of ninjas?”

            A teasing bluff, of course, for Bane could see pure excited delight in his friend’s gaze. Barsad had always been intrigued by what little Bane had shared with him about the League of Shadows. And Barsad’s love of adventure would make it difficult for him to turn down the offer.

            “The choice is yours, brother,” Bane said with an offering sweep of his hand. “And I’m also going to make a similar offer to Yemi.”

            “Well, hell, now you’re just giving it away to anyone, huh?” Barsad grinned, getting to his feet. “I need a smoke.”

            “You will give me your answer by tomorrow?”

            Barsad scoffed, pulling a cigarette from the pack and letting it hang from his lips. “I’m not gonna let you go running off with that temperamental young thing all on your own. You might trip over that huge cock of yours and do something stupid. _That’s_ why you want me there—to keep you grounded.”

            “Hardly, brother.”

            Barsad fumbled in a pocket for his lighter and stepped to the door. Before opening it, he lit the cigarette and took one taunting pull, a mischievous spark in his eyes. “Tell your girlfriend I’m in.”


	28. Chapter 28

            Bane would take no chances with the pit prison. Instead of driving a vehicle to the site, he insisted upon a helicopter to transport himself, Talia, Barsad, and Yemi. Four men from the League would come by truck, arriving at the shaft ahead of them, making sure the area was secure before radioing Bane to tell him it was safe to land. Talia had argued against such expensive measures, but Bane would not be denied.

            “If you can’t think of your personal safety,” he had told her, “then you must remember your importance to the League. Everything you do now must take that great responsibility into consideration. To lose you, especially so soon on the heels of your father’s death, would be devastating. We can take no chances.”

            As the helicopter neared the prison, Bane—seated beside Talia—looked across the compartment to Barsad. His friend flashed him a confident smile and gave him a thumbs up. Bane nodded in appreciation of Barsad’s awareness of his trepidation. Even Barsad had tried to talk Talia out of returning to the pit, though Bane knew Barsad secretly longed to see the notorious prison himself after hearing Bane’s and Yemi’s stories. Perhaps, Bane had told himself, Barsad would acquire a better understanding of Talia and gain even more respect for her after seeing what she had survived.

            Bane glanced at Yemi. The big man’s eyes were closed, but Bane sensed that he was not asleep. If the Nigerian had his own concerns about revisiting the pit, he had not shared such thoughts. In fact, he had volunteered to descend into the pit with Bane, Talia, and Barsad, allowing the League’s men to remain on the surface to guard the shaft opening. Yemi’s courage validated Bane’s reasons for inviting him to join the League. Like Barsad, Yemi had agreed, and once they all climbed back out of the pit, Yemi—with Barsad—would leave with the League’s men to undergo training.

            “Five minutes,” the pilot’s words rang in Bane’s headset, which pressed awkwardly against the sides of his mask.

            Bane looked down at Talia. She appeared so young without make-up and with her hair—at his rueful request—cut short. She pulled from her thoughts to offer him a small smile. Yes, there was courage there—the others could recognize that—but Bane could see much more. He wanted to reach for her hand, to physically convey strength to her, but he refrained in front of the others.

            “You don’t have to do this,” he said into the headset’s com.

            She nodded, a slight frown of insistence creasing her forehead below her small mole, the one that mirrored a mole her mother had borne on her chin. She touched his pack on the floor between them, the one that contained Melisande’s blanket. Bane nodded his understanding, forced a smile.

            When the helicopter landed, dust arose in a choking cloud. Bane wrapped a _shemagh_ around his head, hoping to keep as much dirt as possible from the mask. He helped Talia from the helicopter then reached back to grab their gear. From there they wasted no time, marching directly up to the opening of the shaft. Talia spoke briefly to the men who would remain at the surface, guns at the ready, then she began to don her harness, never looking into the shaft.

            Barsad, however, could not resist his curiosity. As he strapped on his harness, he edged over to the lip of the shaft and peered downward. Even over the whine of the helicopter’s turbines as they powered down, Bane heard Barsad draw out the words, “Jesus Christ.”

            “Having second thoughts, brother?” Bane teased.

            Barsad swallowed and shook his head, unconvincing.

            “You may stay on the surface, if you prefer, and I shall take someone else.”

            “Hell, no. I gotta see this shit.”

            Bane finished with his harness and stepped over to double check Talia’s gear.

            “It’s fine, Bane,” she insisted.

            But he ignored her protest, gently pushing away her hands as he made certain of every strap and carabiner. “Take it from one who has fallen in the shaft, you can never be too careful of your equipment.”

            She frowned, perhaps remembering how she had watched his sabotaged safety line break during his last escape attempt, sending him crashing into the stepwell’s pool, breaking his spine in multiple places. With deep regret, her eyes now touched upon his back brace and wrist brace. Bane had climbed that second time more for Talia and Melisande than himself, a reality of which Talia was very much aware, reflected now in her troubled expression and the way she avoided his eyes.

            Bane wanted to tip her chin up, but he would not touch her in any way in front of the men. If he had his way, no one in the League would ever know of their intimacy, for he did not want to run the risk of damaging their brothers’ opinion of Talia as strong and independent, a woman above all other women.

            “You don’t have to do this, Talia,” he said as quietly as possible, dust swirling about them like a tornado.

            “I do.”

            He frowned. “Remember what I said—we will not linger. No more than fifteen minutes. You will not speak. We will take no chances of your sex being discovered.”

            Her blue gaze flashed at him once, but as she donned her _shemagh_ she said nothing. She did not need to—the look alone warned him to expect disobedience. It took every ounce of his strength to deny the instinctive desire to forcibly carry her back to the helicopter. Instead he turned to Yemi and Barsad who stood ready beside the shaft, making final preparations with their lines.

            Away from Talia’s hearing, Bane said, “You must give me your word, both of you, that if something goes wrong down there, you will see to Talia’s safety. Hers and hers alone. Any rear action that needs to be taken will be my responsibility. You will get her back up the shaft. Understand?”

            They both nodded, suddenly sober and professional.

            Bane put a hand on Yemi’s shoulder. “Are you certain of this, brother? There is no shame in staying here. Trust me, I will understand.”

            Yemi offered a brave smile. “I am more than this place made me, Bane.”

            Bane nodded his gratitude. “Then I have your word?”

            “Of course,” Yemi spoke for both himself and Barsad. “Little Sister has nothing to fear.”

            “Thank you.” He turned to the shaft. “Then let us go.”

            For the descent into the pit, Bane had contemplated increasing the strength of the drugs coursing through his mask, for he did not want to risk any unforeseen bout of PTSD. But in the end he had decided against it, concerned that the higher dosage might impair him. Now, as he rappelled down the unending, ragged stone face of the shaft, he was relieved that he felt no anxiety, even though he vividly remembered both of his attempts to scale these walls and the agonizing failures—both physically and mentally. Before boarding the helicopter and during the flight in, he had sufficiently prepared himself through meditation.

            He watched Talia closely for any signs of reluctance or apprehension, but she smoothly descended just above him, her movements confident, as if she did this every day. Of course, he had refreshed her rappelling skills prior to coming here as well as her target practice with both rifle and pistol. He smiled when he remembered her marksmanship.

            Far below, prisoners watched their arrival from various vantage points in the stepwell which made up the base of the shaft, an ancient _bawdi_ that provided the prison’s water for drinking as well as washing, a nearly stagnant, unpleasant pool. But as Bane descended ever closer, the prisoners began to trail away from the stepwell, disappearing into the corridors on different levels. They probably thought the rappelling men were a part of the usual contingent who resupplied the prison. Standard practice among the jailers at such times was to banish all inmates from the stepwell to ensure that they were not overpowered by the prisoners. Only cellblock captains were allowed into the _bawdi_ , tasked with gathering the allotment of supplies for their specific cellblock.

            Bane half expected to see Doctor Assad in the stepwell, as he had when he had returned with his grandfather many years ago. But the physician was nowhere to be seen. Assad lived, though; Bane knew this from the roster of prisoners provided when he and Talia had purchased the prison.

            “Son of a bitch,” Barsad breathed as his feet touched down at the top of the stepwell. Wonder and horror widened his eyes.

            “Mind your surroundings, brother,” Bane admonished him as he helped Talia the final few feet. “This is no time to be a tourist.”

            Yemi chuckled as he took the safety off his rifle.

            “Fuck you, Yemi,” Barsad said good-naturedly. “Now I can see why you’re so ugly—spending all those years down here in the dark.”

            “Yes? Then what is your excuse for your face, Deadshot?” Yemi flashed a grin in the shaft’s gray gloom.

            Talia paid no mind to their banter as she disconnected her line and took up her pistol. Her gaze was like the stone around her.

            Quietly Bane asked, “Are you all right?”

            She cleared her throat, her focus taking in the shaft and the cells that looked out upon them. Faces there in shadow, staring with nervous curiosity. As if to herself, she murmured, “They are not the same men who killed Mama and tried to kill me.”

            “All men are the same,” Bane rumbled in warning. “They would do exactly as the others did, if given the opportunity. Make no mistake. Now please, say nothing more, as we agreed. Let’s get on with this.”

            She gave a terse nod, checked that her _shemagh_ adequately covered her face, then started on her way. Bane and Barsad followed closely, guns at the ready. Yemi remained behind to guard their lines.

            Talia did not falter as she made her way around the top of the _bawdi_ , her steps as sure as if she had never left this place. From cells, prisoners watched in silence, attention upon the guns, some standing near their doors, fingers wrapped around the cold bars, others trying to remain inconspicuous in the darkness at the rear of their dwellings. Others lay in complete indifference upon their charpoys. Some called out, demanding to know where the hell the supplies were, complaining how low food and medicines were as well as fuel for their braziers. No one answered their queries.

            The trio reached the two cells most familiar to Bane and Talia—the one where she and Melisande had lived and Bane’s next to it where she had dwelled after her mother’s murder. They were both occupied now, of course. Though the prison was not full, the cells closest to the shaft and its weak supply of natural light were understandably the first to be occupied. In Bane’s day, these were usually acquired only through purchase by prisoners who came to the pit either with access to funds or those who were skilled enough once inside to eventually accumulate enough wealth through gambling and theft. Bane had never learned how his mother had merited such a cell, but he suspected someone had had pity on her for being the only female prisoner at the time, and she pregnant upon her arrival. Perhaps Doctor Assad had had a hand in it. Melisande, of course, had whatever sum had been required of her. At least her odious father had allowed that much for her comfort.

            Talia stood in front of her mother’s cell, and the man inside cautiously stared back at them from his charpoy, slowly sitting up.

            “What do you want?” the man asked in Arabic.

            “Get out,” Bane ordered, rifle aiming.

            “You going to toss my cell? Go ahead. I have nothing.”

            “Do as the man says,” Barsad snarled. “Or you’ll never walk out of that cell again.”

            With a dark look, the Arab begrudgingly stood. As he neared the door with his key (each prisoner was the keeper of his own key, to lock himself in or to lock others out while he was away), he staggered to a halt, staring at Bane who had unwound his _shemagh_ from around the mask. The key fell to the ground, but the inmate did not move to pick it up, as if afraid to take his eyes off the grotesque mask and the man who wore it.

            Bane’s hand flashed between the bars, clamped around the inmates’ throat. “Open it. Quickly.”

            For a moment all the man could do was stare, eyes wide. Bane’s hand began to squeeze. Barsad crouched down and reached through the bars to grab the key. The prisoner started to sputter, his hands trying to pry Bane away. The inmates in the cells to either side fled in panic, not even bothering to lock their doors after them.

            “No need to end his sentence early,” Barsad casually said as he unlocked the door. He could not open it, however, with Bane standing in the way. “Brother?”

            Bane did not look away from his victim, but what he saw was not this faceless stranger; instead he saw men like Gola and Omar Alam, men who had been the first to rush into Melisande’s cell that horrific day. If only he could have fought them off, but instead he had pulled Talia away from the violence, she having buried a knife in Gola’s back in a desperate attempt to help Melisande. Before Gola could turn upon her, Bane had rushed her away as she kicked and screamed in protest, calling to her mother.

            “Bane.” Barsad’s calm voice beside him. “Remember, we don’t have all day.”

            The prisoner clawed at Bane’s arm, gasping and writhing, trying to kick through the bars. Bane’s hand flexed with one final, powerful effort, and a crunching sound preceded the life draining from the Arab’s eyes. Bane let him drop.

            “Get him out of there,” he growled to Barsad.

            Barsad opened the cell and dragged the body into the corridor. Bane stepped aside for Talia to enter. She moved slowly but with purpose. Halting in the center of the room, she reached into her tunic and withdrew two red roses. Gently she stroked them to restore their shape, then she kissed their petals before placing them on the stone floor, one crossed over the other. One for her mother, the other for her father. She remained there in a crouch, her back to the door.

            Softly Barsad asked, “This is where Melisande lived?”

            “Yes,” Bane murmured. “And also where she died.”

            “Jesus,” Barsad breathed as his gaze roamed throughout the small, dank cell. “And where did you live?”

            Bane pointed to the cell on the left.

            “Twenty-five years,” Barsad said as if to himself. “How in God’s name did you do it, brother?”

            Bane nodded toward Talia. “I could not have done it alone.” He raised his voice slightly. “We should go now.”

            Talia stood and stared down a moment longer at the roses, whispered something in Arabic that Bane could not hear. When she at last turned, she met neither man’s gaze. Bane had feared that she might shed tears, tears that could hint at her sex should anyone see them, but from what he could see her eyes were dry. With set jaw she marched away from the cell, moving as if she were alone. But she did not reenter the shaft as Bane expected, and he felt cold dread crawl up his aching spine as he hurried to keep up with her as she circled the shaft.

            “We cannot linger,” he forcefully reminded her, making sure she could hear the displeasure in his tone.

            But Talia did not break stride or alter her course. Bane knew exactly where she was going, and if not for fear of her speaking for all to hear he would have grabbed her arm to halt her. He could tell, however, by the purpose in her strides that to try to stop her would only result in a dangerous argument.


	29. Chapter 29

            Word had passed quickly from prisoner to prisoner about Bane’s murder, so no one came near them. Inmate after inmate, however, stared with repulsed fascination at Bane’s mask from behind the safety of locked doors or the darkness of the corridors leading away from the stepwell. Fearful voices murmured in various languages.

            “Where the hell are we going?” Barsad asked, but Bane said nothing, his senses alert in every direction, fingers twitching, breath coming in angry blasts through the mask.

            Talia halted her march once they reached Doctor Assad’s cell, their three forms blocking the weak light from the shaft. Assad sat at the rear of his cell, facing the door, the same cell where he had lived for the past forty years of his life. He did not stir, but his head was up, listening intently. Compared to other cells, his was spacious and boasted a larger bed and more furnishings. His medical practice in the pit had allowed him favored status among his jailers and thus more plentiful supplies of food and fuel, as well as a small library that Bane had pored over until each book was dog-eared and dirty. Now the shelves looked dusty, the volumes neglected. No doubt Assad’s old morphine habit, begun after Melisande’s death, had deprived him of a desire to read.

            “So the masked man has returned,” Assad spoke in Arabic, his deep voice hoarse and weaker than Bane remembered.

            When Bane took a gentle but firm hold upon Talia’s arm, she flashed a rebuking glance at him.

            “We did not come here for this opium-eater,” Bane growled low.

            A quiet, cynical chuckle sounded from Assad. “Rest assured I have broken my old habit, Bane. I had no choice; there was a time several years back when no one in the prison could acquire my comforting friend. Since then I have gained the fortitude to deny myself.”

            “You would never have acquired the taste if you had not betrayed Melisande—”

            Talia’s hand upon Bane’s chest stilled his bitter words.

            “You aren’t alone,” Assad observed. “I can see two shadows beside you. Why have you come? Obviously not to liberate me.”

            Now Bane understood why the old man had not left his cell when they had first arrived, as he had when Bane had come with his grandfather—Assad’s eyesight was failing him.

            “My reasons aren’t any of your business,” Bane said.

            “You are right, Doctor,” Talia said quietly. “Bane did not come alone.”

            Bane gripped her shoulder, hissed, “No.”

            Talia ignored him, her fingers wrapping around the cell bars. “Melisande’s child has returned with him.”

            Assad’s back straightened, and he pushed aside the old blanket that cloaked him. Stiffly—as if he had been sitting a long time on the cold stone floor—he got to his feet. The faint glow from his brazier danced against his balding head and revealed sudden hope upon his dark face. Even his slightly clouded eyes seemed to brighten.

            “Will you let me in?” Talia asked.

            “No,” Bane said. “We have already spent too much time here.”

            “I won’t be long,” she whispered. “I promise.”

            The rage Bane had experienced after learning of Assad’s part in Melisande’s death flared anew, as if only days separated him from that terrible moment. Forcibly he turned Talia toward him and said, “He is not coming with us.”

            Showing nothing but calm, Talia insisted, “I’m only going to talk with him.”

            “You have already talked too much. This is not what we agreed upon.”

            “There is no one near to hear. You and Barsad will keep them away if they come. I won’t be long.” Her eyes softened in the small space allowed by her _shemagh_. “Don’t worry, Bane.”

            Assad had drifted close to the door but not within Bane’s reach. With a tremulous smile, he asked, “How old are you now, child? I have lost track of time, and I can no longer see clearly.”

            “Can you let me in? We can talk more quietly then.”

            “Of course.” Assad fumbled inside his tunic for his key.

            Barsad stepped close to Talia, still facing outward, gun always at the ready. “You should listen to Bane. We shouldn’t dick around here. We’re making Yemi nervous.”

            Talia gave him a small, sly smile. “Are you sure it’s Yemi who’s nervous?”

            “Yemi?” Assad echoed. “Surely you aren’t talking about the Yemi who escaped with you?” His key rattled in the lock.

            “The same,” Barsad said, as if to keep Talia from talking any more than necessary.

            The hinges of the door complained loudly as it opened. “But he is not with you,” Assad said.

            “No,” Barsad replied. “He’s in the shaft, guarding our lines.”

            “Enough,” Bane growled, turning away from Talia to watch their flanks. “Five minutes. I will carry you out of that cell myself if you remain a second longer.”

            Talia slipped inside, and Assad closed the door. Though Bane did not want to hear their conversation, he would not move another foot away from Talia.

            “Here,” Assad said to her. “Sit on my bed.”

            “Sit beside me,” she invited. “So we don’t have to talk louder.”

            “How are you, child? Why did you come back here?”

            “I just…it was something I needed to do.”

            “How is your father? Are you still with him?”

            Bane growled deep in his throat, and Talia hesitated before answering, “My father died recently.”

            “Oh…I’m very sorry to hear that. But you are still with Bane.”

            “Yes.”

            “He protects you still.”

            “Yes.”

            “I am glad. I have worried about you over the years, both of you. I’m pleased that you still have one another.”

            “Me, too.”

            “And how is the world of light treating you otherwise?”

            “I have been fortunate in many ways.”

            “And Bane?”

            “Things have not been as easy for him, but he endures. He is a rock.”

            “Yes, he always has been.”

            “Here…I brought this for you.”

            Surprised, Bane glanced over his shoulder to see her placing a small leather pouch in Assad’s hands.

            “I can’t take you away from here,” she said, “but I can help you at least in this way. You must spend it wisely, though. I will trust your words that you are no longer an addict.”

            “I would not lie to you, sweet child.” He smiled sadly. “Thank you.” He secreted the pouch beneath the blankets on the bed. “But my jailers might wonder how I can suddenly afford luxuries. Since my eyes have begun to dim I can no longer practice medicine, and thus my value to them has diminished as has my compensation.”

            “You have no need to worry about your old jailers. They are no more. The prison has changed hands.”

            “Talia,” Bane reproved.

            “How do you know this?” Assad asked.

            “Because the prison is now Bane’s.”

            Though Bane was relieved she had not implicated herself, he still disapproved of her divulgence.

            “I see,” Assad murmured thoughtfully.

            “I will make sure you are taken care of here.”

            “Surely my new jailer will object.”

            “He will, but he loves me and knows what I’m doing is only just. We differ on few things, but this is one of them. Perhaps one day I will change his mind, and you will be able to finish out your life in a better place.”

            “You have your mother’s kind heart.”

            “No,” Talia said ruefully. “I am very different from her in most ways because I grew up here. It has left its mark, even after all this time.”

            “It must have if you came back here today. It was a great risk, one I wager Bane did not willingly agree to.”

            “And that’s why it’s time we leave,” Bane grumbled.

            “He is right,” Assad said. “Thank you for visiting me. I can’t tell you how happy you’ve made this old blind fool. Just to hear your voice again and know you are well. Your mother would be proud of you.” His voice broke slightly. “Your poor mother…”

            “You shouldn’t still mourn her. She has forgiven you, I’m sure. She would not want you to suffer still. I don’t.”

            Tears shimmered in the corners of his eyes, and his hand reached to touch her face through her _shemagh_. Bane shifted his weight slightly to watch closer, fingers twitching against the rifle. Talia sat patiently as Assad’s fingers explored her features, his clouded gaze seeking.

            “I can tell you have your mother’s beauty as well.”

            “Thank you,” Talia whispered, her voice growing thin.

            Assad sat back, sighed with a contented smile. “But you must go now, child. You must listen to Bane. This is no place for you. You must never come back.”

            “I have promised him that I won’t.”

            “Very good.”

            Talia faltered, held his hands in hers for a long moment, a wistful smile trembling on her lips, then she got to her feet. Assad stood as well, holding out his key to her as a sign of complete trust. Slowly she took it from him, whispered, “Good-bye, old friend,” and embraced him.

            Assad held her close, his eyes pressed shut, then he forced himself to step back. “Go, child. And bless you for coming to me. It means more to me than any sum you could give me.”

            She nodded, lips tight together. “I’m sorry.”

            “There is no need to apologize. You least of all. I understand.” He smiled, whispered, “Good-bye.”

            She let herself out of the cell, locking the door behind her and handing the key back through the bars to Assad’s waiting palm. Then she hastily wiped her eyes with her _shemagh_ and led the way back to Yemi.

            The climb up the shaft was smooth and quick. Bane never looked back. Instead he kept his attention on Talia above him, his mind and body relaxing with each meter she ascended, taking her forever away from the pit. This feeling of relief overrode his displeasure over her disobedience and stubbornness moments ago. Secretly he smiled at her determination to speak with Assad. Of course she had not told him of her plans ahead of time; she was too wise for that. Though her compassion for the doctor did not offend him—in fact it gave him hope that her father’s death had not completely hardened her—he could not understand her compulsion to treat the man with such deference. But, he reminded himself, she had been only five years old when her mother had died, so her viewpoint of Assad would be much different than his before the man’s opium addiction. She had often lamented how Assad would never have been in her mother’s cell that day if she had not pretended to have a stomach ache just to get attention. Bane, however, would allow her to accept none of the blame for Melisande’s death.

            When they climbed out of the shaft and back into the blazing desert heat, Barsad dusted himself off and said, “Well, I’m glad I saw it with my own eyes, but—fuck—I don’t ever want to see it again. Like living in your own coffin.”

            Bane removed his equipment, standing beside Talia who seemed lost in thought, a slight furrow to her brow. Once she had removed her harness, she stepped back to the opening of the shaft. Impulsively Bane took hold of her elbow. She glanced up at him, as if realizing his presence for the first time, then she leaned over to look far down the shaft a final time.

            “This is where he will die,” she said. “Just like your grandfather.”

            Bane frowned. “Who, _habibati_? Assad?”

            “No.” Talia straightened and turned to him, her gaze bone-chillingly cold. One eyebrow twitched with malice as she said, “Bruce Wayne.”


	30. Chapter 30

            “A man who is profane lacks discipline,” Bane’s mother had told him long ago. “And to become a great man, you must be disciplined.”

            All his life Bane had done his best not to curse, even in the most trying situations. It was a way of honoring his mother. He had always been proud of his speech and vocabulary, even when in prison, for it set him apart from others, from those uncultured and ordinary, many who were intimidated by his floridity. But when Talia now emerged from her room in their London hotel suite, Bane found it difficult not to mutter profanities behind his mask, oaths of sexual frustration. With Maysam sharing their suite, he would have no opportunity to remove Talia’s stunning red dress. The sleeveless garment had a plunging v-neckline, teasing him with just a hint of her breasts, her skin smooth and flawless. The slim design followed every curve, reaching to mid-thigh, an unusually daring display overall, considering her grandmother’s presence. But this was not the palace in Rajasthan. Bane now better understood why the Islamic faith demanded its women to be covered.

            Talia smiled at him, her lipstick perfectly matching her dress, her ample eye shadow giving her that sultry, smoky look that drove him wild and offset the sapphire beauty of her eyes. Her hair was pulled back from her face and ears. She came toward him, graceful as a cat in her black heels.

            With a glance toward her grandmother’s bedroom, she said, “ _Habibi_ , how will you share our champagne with your mask on?”

            “I will share it by enjoying watching you drink it, little mouse,” he smiled, fingers twitching in his fierce desire to take her this very minute.

            “Talia,” Maysam’s distant voice admonished. “Don’t badger Haris about the mask.”

            “How did she hear me?” Talia whispered with a half-smile.

            When Maysam emerged from her room, both Talia and Bane stared. She had forsaken her traditional Muslim dress for a beautiful dark blue gown, one of simplicity and modesty with long sleeves and high neckline, its rich material flowing to the floor, hiding her feet.

            “ _Jiddah_ ,” Talia breathed. “You look so beautiful.” She reached for her phone on the nearby table. “You must let me take a picture.”

            “Talia, no. I prefer you don’t.”

            But Talia had snapped the picture anyway, grinning. “I’m going to send it to Barsad right now.”

            “Talia!”

            “Oh, _Jiddah_ , don’t look so surprised. I’ve known about you and Barsad a long time.”

            Maysam paled and looked almost accusingly at Bane.

            “Bane didn’t tell me,” Talia laughed.

            “Then—then how do you know?”

            “Barsad told me a while ago. Don’t be angry with him; he was lonely and drunk.”

            A fierce blush colored Maysam’s high cheekbones, and she could look at neither of them. “That was a long time ago,” she sputtered. “I am an old woman now. No man wants to see an old woman’s picture.”

            Talia stepped over to kiss her grandmother’s cheek. “You are not an old woman. You are a beautiful woman.”

            “Yes,” Bane said, “I’m surrounded by beautiful women. Perhaps I should send Barsad a picture of both of you to torment him during his training.”

            “Haris,” Maysam tsked.

            Bane chuckled. “Come now, my beauties. The food is growing cold and the champagne is growing warm. We have much to celebrate.” He pulled out their chairs from the table where supper awaited, filling the suite with tantalizing scents. Room service had impeccably dressed the table with an immaculate white tablecloth, shining silver, and crystal glasses that caught the light from the chandelier.

            Maysam, momentarily holding Talia’s hand, led her to the table, a proud smile on her face. Once she sat, Bane eased her chair closer to the table, then he stepped to Talia’s chair and did the same. With an echoing pop that brought smiles to all of them, Bane opened the champagne bottle—a particularly expensive one—and poured the sparkling liquid into the delicate stemware, including a small amount in the glass at his place setting.

            Still standing, he elevated his glass in Talia’s direction. “To you, my dear. Congratulations on your degree and all the hard work it took to acquire it. I speak for both of your parents when I say how proud we all are of you. To think a child of the pit has risen to such lofty heights is truly amazing and certainly just. And here is to the continuation of your education.”

            Talia blushed. “Thank you, _habibi_.”

            Their glasses gently chinked, and Talia and Maysam drank. Maysam made a small, astonished sound, for this was the first time she had ever tasted alcohol. Her widened eyes made Bane and Talia laugh with delight.

            “Oh my,” Maysam said. “That was unexpected…and good.”

            Talia laughed again. “We have corrupted you, _Jiddah_. What would Ayman say?”

            Maysam gave an emboldened huff of satisfaction. “The hypocritical fool would probably have a heart attack.”

            “If he hasn’t already,” Talia said. “The day we told him I was flying you here for the commencement, I thought he was going to have a stroke right then, especially when I told him he was not welcome.”

            As Bane settled into his chair and poured the small amount of champagne from his flute into Talia’s glass, he grinned behind the mask. She had been insistent that she alone be allowed to escort her grandmother, for she did not want Ayman or one of Amir’s family members to spoil Maysam’s first trip out of India. Talia had been determined to make her graduation as much about her grandmother as herself. And she had done admirably, having spent the past week here in London with her grandmother, showing Maysam the sights, shopping, dining, attending plays. Bane, of course, had refrained from sharing such things, not only in order to keep a low profile in such a high profile city but because he had matters to attend to with the League. He looked forward to the end of training for Barsad and Yemi so he could delegate some of his duties to them. And besides that, he greatly missed both of them, especially Barsad. Bane could not refrain from grinning again when he thought of Barsad receiving Talia’s picture of Maysam, especially considering Barsad’s forced celibacy during his months of training.

            Contented for the moment, Bane leaned back in his chair and enjoyed listening to the two women talk. Watching Talia eat further aroused and distracted him, but he managed to hide his passions, toying with his unused linen.

            “I wish you could stay longer, _Jiddah_ ,” Talia was saying as she expertly sliced off another piece of filet mignon. She had always been skilled with a knife, whether eating or in training with the League.

            “I have been away from home long enough.” Maysam smiled. “And I have loved every minute of it. But I think it’s only fair that the two of you should have a day just to yourselves without feeling that you must entertain me. I hate to think how long it might be before you see each other again.”

            Bane stirred slightly, wondering once again if Maysam knew the true nature of his relationship with Talia. Talia always insisted that she had never said anything to her grandmother about it, a secret she felt was unnecessary but one upon which Bane insisted out of respect.

            “You’re talking about a woman who had an affair with Barsad,” Talia often teased him. “She is not an innocent, Bane.”

            “Nonetheless, you are her granddaughter, and I have no business sharing your bed, a man of my age. She believes I am your protector, not your lover. I would hate to lose her respect.”

            “You could never do that. She loves you like a son; she told you herself. Besides, she is a woman, after all. She probably already knows we’re lovers.”

            Considering Maysam’s words now at the table, Bane thought that perhaps Talia was correct, yet he would leave that to the realm of speculation. He did not want to risk seeing displeasure in Maysam’s eyes, those alluring eyes so like Melisande’s.

            “I can’t let you leave without discussing this again,” Talia was saying to her grandmother. “You should come live with me in Gotham.”

            “Oh, child. That is no place for me. You will be so busy at your new job and working on your master’s degree, I would be lonely, and that would only make you unhappy.”

            “I would have plenty of time for you, _Jiddah_. I won’t know anyone there.”

            “In no time you will have a swarm of friends,” Maysam insisted. “You are too young to be weighed down by an old woman from an old culture.”

            “Bane,” Talia pouted. “Can’t you convince her?”

            He chuckled. “No more than you can, little mouse. She is stubborn like you.”

            “Besides,” Maysam said, “there is something you are forgetting, Talia.”

            “What?”

            Maysam set down her fork, and amusement gave way to sobriety, erasing the lighthearted mood. “The lives you and Haris lead are only going to become more dangerous. I won’t lecture you on your choices, and no doubt you have kept much more hidden from me, but don’t think I am unaware. Though you both believe you are indestructible, I am older and wiser. I have seen the premature end of many a dangerous, seemingly-indestructible life. By staying in Rajasthan, by keeping my husband’s home, I can provide both of you with a haven should you ever require it. You will always be safe there.”

            Bane tried to infuse lightness into his tone. “Amir might say otherwise.”

            “No,” Maysam said with cold certainty. “Trust me when I tell you he will have no say in the matter. I remind him regularly of what you have done for my granddaughter, and he has no doubts of my love for Talia nor any delusions about his part in Melisande’s imprisonment. Amir, believe it or not, does feel some guilt over her terrible fate, and because of that he will not deny anything I ask for Talia, whether Iba agrees or not.”

            “You shouldn’t live there just for our sakes, _Jiddah_ ,” Talia insisted. “Wouldn’t you be happier with me?”

            “There is no place I am happier than when I am with you, _habibati_. But we three must—as your father used to say—do what is necessary, yes?”

            Bane nodded to himself in satisfaction over Maysam’s tactic. Of course by invoking Rā’s al Ghūl, Maysam had made the most poignant point in her argument, and Talia surrendered with a small sigh of frustration.

            “We would never bring our troubles to your doorstep,” Bane said.

            Maysam reached to take his hand where it rested on the table. “This is not negotiable, Haris. You will promise me that should the need ever arise, you will not hesitate to return to me, that you will deliver my granddaughter even if she insists otherwise.”

            Bane frowned and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Of course.”

            “Very well.” Maysam’s smile returned. “Now, enough of such matters. This is our last evening together, the three of us. Let us make it a happy one.”


	31. Chapter 31

            When Bane ended the phone call with Finn Donnell, he reached for the television remote control and raised the volume to where it had been prior to the call. His scowl deepened, and his fingers twitched as he watched the GCN breaking news. Finn had been watching the same coverage from his current location in Los Angeles.

            A grease-painted madman who was referred to as the Joker had emerged recently on the scene in Gotham. He had set his sights on Batman, trying to draw the man out, leading Bane to believe that what was left of organized crime in Gotham had hired the clown to kill the so-called Caped Crusader. But watching the Joker’s latest escapade—an assassination attempt on Gotham’s mayor—Bane began to look at the criminal in a different light. Perhaps he was not insane at all. To remain at large, with Batman and Gotham’s police force searching for him, took cunning. The Joker was becoming bolder and bolder in his ever-expanding game with Gotham and the Batman, and so Finn had called to discuss the matter, to see if Bane recommended any sort of intervention.

            “I will deal with him myself,” Bane had said. “It is about time I visit Gotham anyway.”

            The sound of a keycard sliding into the door lock caused him to quickly turn off the television. He did not want Gotham to disturb or distract Talia from their night together. He would share his plans with her in the morning before they headed to the airport.

            She breezed in with a smile on her face, dressed in tight-fitting black jeans and a dark blue blouse that matched her eyes. As she came across the suite, she held up a small shopping bag.

            “ _Jiddah_ said to give this to you, so you can give it to Barsad since you will see him before I do.” She laughed. “Wait until you see what it is.”

            “If it is a gift, perhaps what it is is none of my business, _habibati_.”

            “She wouldn’t call it a gift, of course.” Talia winked, setting the bag on an end table near the sofa where Bane sat, arms spread to either side along the back of it. “So you can look.”

            Bane chuckled because of her happiness. He had been afraid that her grandmother’s departure might leave a dark cloud over her. Somehow he remained on the sofa, though the growing impatience of his passion for her urged him to take her into his arms. As she bent over the bag, his gaze trailed up her legs to her shapely buttocks and lingered there while his thoughts wandered. She turned, no doubt knowing exactly where his attention had been, but she remained focused on Maysam’s gift, which she now held in her hand. She carried the red scarf over and set beside him.

            “She said his old one looked worn out when she last saw it,” Talia explained. “She said to give him this one to replace it.” She grinned conspiratorially. “Did you know that the one he wears was given to him by _Jiddah_?”

            Bane’s eyebrows rose. “No, I did not. But that certainly explains his attachment to the old rag. He kept it with him even in Africa where it wasn’t needed. I thought perhaps it was something from his family.”

            Talia draped the crimson scarf across Bane’s lap and nestled against his right side, still smiling. “I think it’s so sweet.”

            “Why didn’t she give it to us before she went to the airport?”

            “I think it was because she didn’t want us to tease her.”

            Bane chuckled. “Every now and then your grandmother gives us a glimpse of the girl she once was.” He pulled the scarf away, laying it beside him on the sofa, then he put his arms around her, said, “Come here, little mouse,” and drew her into his lap. “You have tortured me enough these past days. You must have pity on me now.”

            Talia kissed the side of his mask where it covered his cheek, then rested her head against his shoulder, sighing. Her fingers trailed across the front of his tight t-shirt. “You regret _Jiddah_ being here so long?”

            “Never in life. I love your grandmother, and it pleases me to see you two together, especially now when you are about to begin your new life. I just wish she were going with you, but it is probably for the best that she is not. She is a wise woman.”

            “Yes, she is. I hope I can at least convince her to visit.”

            “We will both try to convince her of that.” He grinned. “I will task Barsad with this as well, once his training is over.” He leaned his head momentarily against hers. “Now, no more about Barsad and Maysam. It is time you do something for me.”

            Playfully she smiled, her perfume overwhelming him. “What? Can I guess?”

            He chuckled deep in his throat, the mask giving it almost a sinister sound. “I want you to change into that red dress you wore last night.”

            “Why?” she played along.

            “So I can take it off you.”

**###**

            “Will you come with me to Gotham?” Talia asked. “At least for the first few days?”

            Bane crooked his right arm behind his head on the pillow. His left hand languidly stroked her hair where she rested beside him in his bed, head pillowed on his chest. She was deliciously warm after their lovemaking, her scent all over him. If only he could bottle it and take it with him wherever he went.

            “No, _habibati_. I must never be with you in Gotham. We can’t take the chance that we would be seen together there. If we are to fulfill your father’s destiny, our paths must never cross in that wretched place.”

            Talia rested her chin against him so she could see his face. Disappointment—and perhaps a touch of unease—caused her to frown. Her finger seductively traced the front of his mask. “But I will be so lonely without you.”

            He chuckled. “You have been without me many times, little mouse, and you have survived. Perhaps we will be able to escape to your grandmother’s now and then.”

            “I hope so.” She rested her head back down, her hand drifting across his chest now. “I will miss you so much. When we’re apart, I feel as if a part of me is missing.”

            He emitted a small groan through the mask as her fingers dipped beneath Melisande’s blanket to stroke him into arousal. “It is the same way with me. It has always been so. Being separated from you…how can I protect you when I am on the other side of the world? But I remind myself that Finn will be near you, and your security of course is made up of the League’s finest. I tell myself you have nothing to fear, but…” His arm tightened around her, pressing her soft belly against his hip. “This is something I am loath to delegate to anyone. I feel as if I am letting down Maysam and your mother.”

            “Of course you aren’t, _habibi_. They would understand your reasons. If I am to avenge my father and finish his life’s work, there must be sacrifices…by all of us. It’s just that…you have sacrificed so much more than all of us. It isn’t fair.” She withdrew her hand and draped one long, slim leg over him, moving it enticingly back and forth over his erection.

            “We don’t concern ourselves with fair, my love, only with what is necessary.” His fingers closed around a fistful of her silky hair. “And right now it’s necessary that I ravage you.”

            She laughed softly, her touch savoring every hard undulation of his body, as if to commit such detail to memory. “I will miss this magnificent body of yours, _habibi_. No one else can compare.”

            “I hope you will find no occasion for such comparisons, my minx.”

            But, of course, they both knew her mission could very well lead her down unsavory paths. It was a reality Bane hated to contemplate, especially right now. The thought of another man even looking at Talia made his jaw tighten with hatred.

            Talia lay the length of him and began a slow, torturous grind. Inwardly he cursed the mask for the way it obstructed his lower vision. She kissed its grating, her fingers caressing his scalp.

            “ _Habibi_ ,” she whispered. “Will you do something for me?”

            “Anything, my pearl.”

            “Take off your mask, just this once. Let me kiss you the way you deserve to be kissed.”

            He closed his eyes with a small frown, moaned, “No, _habibati_.”

            “Please. Just this once. This last time.”

            “No. That is not how I want you to remember me.”

            “Have you forgotten that I’ve seen your face?”

            “No, I can never forget that. And I will continue to protect you from it.”

            Talia’s movements halted, and she took hold of his face, impelling him to open his eyes. She hovered just above him, her expression pained. “There is nothing to be ashamed of.”

            “I am not ashamed. But if I remove the mask, it will only make you think of why I am disfigured. You carry that guilt with you still. It doesn’t belong with you anymore; it never should have in the past.”

            “Whether you wear the mask or not, _habibi_ , I will always think of what you sacrificed for me. Don’t punish me by denying me any longer of the lips I used to kiss, that read to me, sang to me, comforted me all those years in the pit. You are beautiful to me, with or without the mask. I would never think otherwise.”

            He smiled sadly, his hands pushing the hair back from her oval face, framing her cheeks with his fingers. “ _You_ are beautiful. My only beauty, now and always.” His thumb traced her lips. “Such beauty must never be tainted.”

            Talia captured his hand, kissed his palm. “Stop, _habibi_. Please…do this. If not for yourself, then for me. I want you to kiss me.” She put his fingers to her lips. “Here.” Then she drew his hand down between her legs. “And here. If you do, I will never ask again.”

            “No. Let us talk no more of this.”

            A familiar determined light sparked in her eyes, and she pushed away from him and off the bed. Then she padded across the room to the dresser and opened one of the drawers.

            “No, Talia,” he growled.

            But she did not listen to him and instead carried a vial of morphine and a syringe back to the bed. Bane sat up as she drew the drug through the needle.

            “Talia, stop this.”

            She set the vial on the nightstand and sat beside him, syringe in hand. He restrained her wrist.

            “Bane.” Her eyes softened. “Let me do this for you. Just once. I so want to see you, the man no one else sees, the man who has given me everything, more than even my own father. You’ve never denied me anything but this. And there is no need.” She touched the mask’s grating, murmured, “Don’t you want to kiss me?”

            “Of course. There are few things I have thought of more. But—”

            “Then let me do this.”

            Bane faltered, torn by desire and his instinct to protect her from all things, including himself. The thought of their mouths, their tongues at last meeting, tasting her…it all weakened his resolve. His eyes lingered upon the syringe.

            “Are you afraid my touch will hurt you?” Talia asked. “We can go slow. You must tell me if it is too much.” The needle lowered toward his arm then halted just above his vein.

            He frowned at the syringe and admitted, “That will not be enough, _habibati_. Not anymore.”

            Her expression fell into despair, and she whispered a small, pitying, “Oh,” before she collapsed against his chest.

            “This is what I mean,” Bane murmured, stroking her hair. “There is no reason to pity me.”

            She pushed herself back, wiped away a stray tear, attempted to deny her guilt. Then she returned to his medical kit to retrieve another vial.

            This time when she sat on the bed and drew more of the drug into the syringe, he only watched. He knew to resist her further would only lead to heated words between them, and he did not want such a thing to happen tonight. And the images she had put in his head, the pleasures that awaited him compromised his resolve. If the pain from his old wounds managed to breach the morphine, surely the pleasures of Talia’s body would make the sacrifice worth it.

            Talia set aside the empty vial, hesitated, waited for him, the needle poised again. When at last he nodded, she injected the drug. Then, as they allowed the opiate to work through him, he lay back with Talia in his arms, closed his eyes, breathed deeply to pull the mask’s vapor into his expanded lungs. With the lightness of a feather, Talia’s fingers drifted up and down his body, relaxing him, preparing him.

            “Now?” she whispered in time, before the combination of vapor and injection could over-power his senses.

            “Yes.”

            “Let me.”

            As he lifted his head from the pillow to allow her access to the mask’s releases, he opened his eyes. With a mixture of dread and hope, he would watch her closely throughout. If he saw that the horror was too great for her, he would stop this, no matter how much she might protest.

            She did it carefully, sensually, and he found his heartbeat quickening in anticipation of their mouths at last joining. As her fingers worked, she bestowed light kisses upon his head, eyes, and mask, keeping him from scrutinizing her too closely. Her fingers were steady, though, revealing no hesitation or anxiety. Always so brave, he thought with a pleased, soft growl of desire.

            As usual when the mask came off, Bane experienced a moment of anxiety as well as relief. It had become such a part of him that its presence served as a comfort, while its removal was a release of the constant, unpleasant pressure on his face. Carefully, as if handling a fragile, valuable piece of art, Talia set the mask on the bedside table next to the empty vials. Then she smiled down at him. If the scars and deformities repulsed her, she skillfully hid such reactions. Bane waited expectantly.

            Tenderly she touched his torn lips, his damaged nose and left ear. “You must tell me if it’s too much.”

            She kissed his cheeks where the mask always left its marks and impressions, then her lips brushed like feathers across the grotesque remains of his nose before kissing his slashed mouth, ever so tenderly. First only with her lips, but as he responded, drawing her into his embrace, her tongue found his, pushing past the ragged remains of his lips, boldly exploring the damaged interior of his mouth. A staggering wave of passion surged in him. With one move, he shifted his weight so she was beneath him. Her nails scraped along his back, and she trembled in anticipation as he moved down her body. His mouth savored every inch of her, his mind blocking out the discomfort such ministrations caused. To him, he was discovering her anew, each caress like the first time he had lain with her, her body exciting him in a way he had never imagined possible when a prisoner of the mask. And as he moved ever downward across the satin of her flesh, her encouraging hands kneading his shoulders, he no longer felt the nagging pain. It was nothing. It was gone. He felt as whole and complete as he had long ago in the pit, when all that mattered in the world was a small, motherless girl.


	32. Chapter 32

            Bane had been to many of the world’s greatest cities, and some he had found fascinating, such as Paris and London because of their rich history. Others, like Shanghai, had repulsed him with their filth, while some, like Dubai, sickened him with their decadence. He had been to America once before, during his initial stint with the League of Shadows, but this was his first visit to Gotham City. There would be little occasion for an intimate study of the populace, but after he was picked up at the airport—a small, private strip away from the city—by one of the League’s operatives, he could sense the rotten core of the city’s people even from the insularity of the car, could see the unhappiness and selfishness on the faces of those on the streets, could feel the negative energy they derived from the choked traffic and pollution. Buildings loomed above, a physical symbol of the city’s excess and a societal symbol of those who towered above others with little thought to a poorer man’s daily struggles. Those in the shining skyscrapers like Wayne Tower allowed the masses below to have only _illusions_ about life’s opportunities, not _actual_ socio-economic prospects.

            He thought of Talia in her luxury Uptown apartment. She had arrived there yesterday. Finn Donnell had flown in from Los Angeles and met her at the airport himself, following Bane’s directive. Talia, of course, had insisted that her arrival did not require the services of the League’s regional commander, but Bane would not rescind Finn’s orders. Later Finn had called to report all was well and their operatives in place to ensure Talia’s safety and comfort. Of course Bane had wished to talk to Talia himself, but he would not allow such an indulgence. He must retreat into the shadows and allow her to complete her metamorphosis into Gotham’s latest debutante.

            How long before Bruce Wayne noticed her? Bane growled in the mask’s confines. His selfish, jealous side was glad that Wayne still pined over Rachel Dawes. But what would happen if the rumors were true about Dawes and her boss—District Attorney Harvey Dent—becoming engaged soon? In his disappointment and heartbreak, would Wayne turn to the younger, more attractive Miranda Tate?

            Bane scowled over Talia’s assumed name. It reminded him all too much of her days in prison when she had been forced to deny her true identity, her very gender, until the fateful day of her escape. He and Melisande had always deeply regretted the fact that they had needed to deceive Talia until she was old enough to start asking questions about the physical differences between herself and the male inmates. Bane had never dreamt that one day she would again have to conceal her identity. The whole plan for her life in Gotham had always made him uneasy, and now that the day had arrived, the reality of Talia’s new life agitated him even more, and he had to pin his twitching fingers beneath his thighs.

            His driver took him across town, fighting traffic all the way yet never uttering one comment or curse, never looking back at Bane. During the drive, Bane received a phone call from Finn, confirming that they had acquired the Joker and were awaiting him.

            Their destination was in a seedy part of town, the car driving into a small, abandoned parking lot off a backstreet. Bane stepped out of the car into the failing light of a summer day, cast into shadow by the surrounding buildings. The driver left him there, and just as the car disappeared, a formidably built man dressed darkly emerged from a bar across the street. He strode loosely, with feigned casualness toward Bane. When he drew near, their eyes met—no reaction to the mask—then the man gave a barely perceptible nod before leading Bane away from the lot and down an adjoining alley.

            A cat, scrounging in a garbage bin, saw them and scurried away, the only movement in the narrow alley. The man led the way to a manhole and there stopped to glance around, acting as if he were searching for cigarettes or something in his pockets. With no one in sight, he bent to struggle open the manhole cover. Bane crouched to the task, easily shifting the heavy metal cover without the man’s added assistance. The operative could not hide his admiration. Without a word, he led the way down the ladder.

            As the murkiness of the sewer draped over Bane, he found relief and comfort in the dimness. Over the many years since his escape from the pit prison, he had never fully adjusted to the world of light. At first his uneasy transition had disappointed him, but over time he accepted and even embraced his background of darkness. Considering his history and his physical deformities and mask, he eventually realized it was useless to entertain the thought of ever being like those who dwelled above ground. And now he no longer desired such inclusion. In fact, he had grown to disdain it.

            They trudged for several minutes through the dank underworld, silent except for the movement of rats and stale, unpleasant water. Bane thought of the pool at the base of the prison stepwell and smiled grimly to himself, for no doubt surface dwellers would have looked upon such as a sewer akin to this one. How little thought they gave to such luxuries as clean water, especially Gotham’s elite. He scoffed to himself, for surely the rich did not deign to drink from the city’s water supply. No, theirs would be bottled and purified.

            As they traveled through the labyrinth, Bane’s sharp vision needed little of the illumination from the operative’s flashlight to take in the details of Gotham’s ancient and intricate underground network. An entire world unto itself, like the pit. Clammy and nearly forgotten. People lived down here, he knew. The poor, the disaffected, the neglected. Indeed, the entire population of another city could dwell here, unseen. He nodded to himself. After this, he must obtain details of the city’s underground network. It could prove to be a valuable asset in the League’s future operations here.

            As they neared their destination, Bane required no light to detect the presence of others. He sensed their nearness before the shadowy figures ever made themselves known. Armed men. Finn’s men.

            _No_ , he reminded himself, _my men now_.

            “He’s here,” said the operative who stepped to Bane’s side as if to provide protection. Without another word, he guided Bane down a right-hand passage which widened slightly.

            Two more armed men, dressed in black and wearing night vision technology, stood on either side of a hooded figure seated on the driest part of the cement, hands bound behind his back. The prisoner’s attire was unique and from another era. His long, purple coat, perhaps made of wool, with shoulder pads and orange lining showed plenty of wear as did his matching pants. Beneath a green waistcoat, the Joker wore a mottled blue-gray shirt. His leather shoes were battered and beyond the benefit of polish. Obviously this one had no desire to hide in Gotham’s shadows; instead he flaunted his individuality.

            Bane nodded to the guards, and one removed the black hood from the prisoner. It revealed a man just as colorful and bizarre as his clothing. Bane had seen the Joker on television news reports, but seeing him in the flesh somehow presented less of the ridiculous and more of the dangerous. White greasepaint covered the Joker’s entire face, slightly smudged and removed in places by either the hood or his struggle when the League’s men had captured him. Black paint around his brown eyes provided a macabre appearance with its sharp contrast against the white. Cherry red colored his harsh mouth and smeared in the corners, covering horrendous, jagged scars that curved upward like an extension of his mouth. A permanent, freakish smile. Bane thought of his own facial scars, and while this similarity did not make him pity the creature, it did intrigue and connect him.

            The Joker shook his head like a dog, sending his stringy, thin, dirty hair into an even worse tangle than before. Like his clothing, this too had been dyed, matching the green of his waistcoat. From beneath low brows, he looked up at Bane, showing no fear, no reaction whatsoever to the large man and his tarantula-like mask.

            “Well, well, well,” the Joker said in a croaky, nasal whine. “What have we here? Another of Gotham’s freaks? I thought I knew all of them. But,” he paused as his tongue darted out to lick his lips, “I would remember,” he gave his chin a jerk in the direction of Bane’s mask, “ _that_.”

            “Unless you prefer I gag you or snap your neck, clown, I suggest you mind your tongue.”

            A sly grin flickered across the crimson lips, displaying yellow teeth. The tongue flashed out again, reminding Bane of a snake. The Joker twisted his neck to one side and produced a slight cracking sound as if to mock Bane’s threat.

            “Your recent games with the Batman,” Bane began, “I will admit have been…amusing. And I will happily let you continue to play with him. However, your games will not go so far as to result in his death, as I understand you currently desire.”

            “And who are you to interfere, my enormous masked friend?” the Joker countered with a small smile that attempted to camouflage his sudden irritation. Bane could see that this one disliked being challenged. It was no surprise that the Joker recruited only the weak-minded—men who easily followed, those who were demented, often former inmates at Arkham Asylum, used then discarded, often lethally.

            “I am no friend of yours, clown.”

            “Then perhaps a friend of the Batman…since you appear to want to protect him.”

            Bane did not respond to this, but the Joker was clever enough to catch the hatred in Bane’s eyes before the emotion could be hidden. The Joker grinned and laughed, the maniacal sound bouncing throughout the tunnels.

            “Ah! Definitely _not_ a friend of the Batman,” the clown said, putting an odd emphasis on the “t” in ‘not.’ “Then why do you want to protect him?”

            “I am merely preserving him. His end will come, rest assured, but not at your hands. That privilege belongs to someone else.”

            “Your boss then?”

            “No one commands me, clown.”

            “Hmm.” The Joker nodded, his glance taking in Bane’s redoubtable body from top to bottom. “And what are you prepared to offer this dog to keep him on his leash?”

            “Your life. And the freedom and resources to occupy the Batman however you please short of his death.” Bane took a step closer. “If it is death you crave, I suggest another target. One that will wound our mutual friend greater than anything else you could do to him.”

            The Joker’s restless tongue touched each corner of his mouth in turn, and he smiled, his dark eyes sparking with excitement. “Now we’re talking.” He crossed his legs, as casual as if sitting on a sofa in someone’s house, leaned forward, looking up at Bane like an expectant dog. “Are you suggesting who I think you are suggesting?”

            Bane stared down at him, made him wait, then said, “Rachel Dawes.”


	33. Chapter 33

            Bane did not linger in Gotham after his encounter with the Joker. Instead he flew to Iran where he had business to attend to, meeting a man who was a potential donor to the League’s American operations, someone ready to fund anything detrimental to U.S. capitalism. While there Bane kept in close contact with Finn Donnell and watched the events in Gotham continue to play out as the Joker’s next phase commenced.

            He admitted admiration for the Joker’s manipulation of Batman and satisfaction when he watched coverage of Rachel Dawe’s death and Harvey Dent’s horrible burn injuries. The Joker’s orchestration, using the Gotham Police Department as pawns, was a stroke of madcap genius. With smug satisfaction, Bane imagined Bruce Wayne’s pain over the loss of his childhood sweetheart. Dawes had been an idealistic fool, thinking she and Dent could truly make a difference in cleaning up the streets of Gotham. It was like giving hope to the inmates in the pit prison—taunting them with the light spilling down the shaft, showing them a shiny future that they could only dream about and never really obtain.

            But the Joker, like others, underestimated the Batman, and the clown ended up captured and in Arkham Asylum before Bane could leave Iran. He did indirectly accomplish one thing, though—Harvey Dent was dead. Although the news reports claimed Batman was responsible for not only Dent’s death but the deaths of several others, including policemen, Bane knew better because he—unlike the citizens of Gotham—knew Batman and Bruce Wayne were one and the same, and Wayne would never directly kill any of Gotham’s citizens, corrupt or otherwise. The billionaire did not have what it took to do what was necessary, which was to eliminate Gotham’s true criminals—his wealthy, elite friends. But with Dent dead—Gotham’s white knight—Bane knew Gotham, in time, would revert to its true nature from before Dent’s crusade against crime.

            When Gotham instated the Dent Act, Bane was incensed. Prisoners held in Blackgate Prison by the dozens were denied parole and held indefinitely without trial, like those in the pit. There would be innocent among the guilty, just as he and Talia and their mothers had been. Of course Gotham’s so-called justice system claimed the Act was necessary and essential to maintaining the city’s new image and lower crime rate. Bane scoffed at such bogus justifications.

            Meanwhile the Batman was no more. The Caped Crusader had gone to ground with the accusations of multiple homicides hanging over him. And Bruce Wayne himself was rarely seen as weeks turned into months and months into years. He did not attend the various high society parties and so-called charity balls that Talia frequented as she became more and more prominent among Gotham’s upper class. Bane could not be happier about this development, for no matter what the League’s plans for Wayne and the city, he wanted not one finger of Wayne’s to sully Talia.

            In the first three years that Talia was in Gotham, she acquired her master’s degree and rose in the ranks of Chase Global, an international finance company owned by Damien Chase’s father. Chase Global had diverted funds to the League of Shadows for some time for a variety of purposes, one being security, and even after Damien’s death Charles Chase had continued to funnel money to the League. After Rā’s al Ghūl’s death, Bane had been concerned that the funding might dry up, but Talia and Finn Donnell had met with Charles personally and convinced him that he had no reason to lose confidence in the organization just because of Rā’s’ passing. After the meeting, Finn had told Bane that Charles had been particularly impressed with Talia’s poise and intelligence for one so young. “And,” Finn had added with a rare, small smile, “no doubt her beauty helped our cause as well.”

            Indeed Talia’s beauty had quickly become known throughout Gotham. Miranda Tate was often on the cover of various magazines and newspapers and splashed across internet websites, and as she ascended in both the corporate and social world, her exposure grew both publicly and privately. There was no end to interested suitors wining and dining her in an effort to marry her and the rumored fortune she had inherited from her deceased parents. And while Talia did not hesitate to allow such men to spend their time and money on her, she found few interesting enough to retain for any length of time. But she remained with most long enough to convince them to invest in Chase Global, though in truth their money was channeled to the League.

            “Brother, you can’t let this shit get to you,” Barsad said amidst the most recent of Bane’s black, silent moods when he had learned of Talia’s latest plaything.

            “Of what do you speak, brother?” Bane asked in feigned ignorance.

            Barsad cocked his head with an indulgent half smile. “When you’re like this—the way you’ve been for the past month, snapping people’s necks left and right—I know what’s eating at you. Nobody else does, but I do.”

            Bane growled at Barsad and turned away. “Perhaps you are not as clever as you think.”

            “No? Then look me in the eyes and tell me I’m wrong.”

            Bane stood from the table in his room where they had been reviewing the latest reports from the League’s regional commanders. A low fire hissed in the fireplace, dispelling the chill. Slowly he lumbered toward the crude hearth, his back particularly troublesome from his long day of work here in _’Eth Alth’eban_ , the League’s new headquarters in the Arabian peninsula.

            “Maybe,” Barsad continued, “if you went to see her, it’d improve your…mood. After all, a man needs a good fuck more often than you allow yourself.”

            Bane turned with anger flaring. “Don’t demean her, brother.”

            Barsad gestured. “See what I mean? A couple words from even me, and you’re ready to snap my neck, too.”

            Bane growled again but this time at his own stupidity for giving Barsad ammunition with which to bait him. He turned back to the fire, hands clasped behind his back to keep his fingers from twitching. His glance caught upon Melisande’s blanket upon his bed on the other side of the room. An unexpected image of her came to him from prison—she was sitting on her charpoy, quietly, peacefully crocheting. Bane had neglected his crocheting for some time now, busy overseeing the genesis of _’Eth Alth’eban_ , among other projects. He remembered Temujin encouraging him to keep up his gentle hobby, for it soothed him and helped clear his mind of troubling thoughts. The memories of both his mentor and his first love darkened his mood even more.

            “You only see each other once a year,” Barsad continued, relentless as always, “and that’s at Maysam’s where you sneak around like a God damn teenager. You’re human, Bane. It’s okay to show it now and then.”

            Truth be told, as the years had slipped by since he had lost Talia to Gotham, Bane felt less and less human. He threw himself into the League’s work, never sending men anywhere that he would not go himself and often did, especially if the mission was critical enough. Per Talia’s orders, Barsad was always with him, regardless of Bane’s common protests. Though he would not admit it to his lieutenant, he knew Barsad was all that stood between himself and total self-imposed social isolation. But sometimes even Barsad’s wit and no-nonsense persona could not reach through his wall of solitude, as was the case this day when he left Barsad alone in his room.

            He lumbered down the wooden stairs to the lowest floor of the incomplete structure, ignoring the men who worked around him, carpenters and stone masons, constructing the dormitory within this cavernous underground chamber. When finished it would resemble the dormitory of the old monastery in the Himalayas where the League had been based for so many decades. Once finished, the building would have a central atrium shooting up through several levels. At the base of it would be a common room where the men could gather for relaxation and fellowship, as they used to do in the monastery. Bane had fond memories of evenings spent there with Talia, her father, and their brothers, but he knew he would never share such fellowship here in _’Eth Alth’eban_. Those days were gone, destroyed by Bruce Wayne and left among the wreckage upon the mountain.

            _’Eth Alth’eban_ —Arabic for the Snake’s Nest—was not an original product of Bane’s imagination and vision. No, Rā’s al Ghūl had always planned a community such as this, not only for the League but as a place for others related to their trade. Trusted arms dealers and others who would operate here only by greasing the collective palms of the League. But such endeavors would be for a later stage of the development. First priority was to have the appropriate buildings constructed for the League, structures that would include a training facility and meeting space for the council, as well as house the League’s ever-burgeoning technology.

            Talia, of course, wanted to come here and see what had been accomplished thus far and once again pore over her father’s designs with Bane, but Bane had talked her into waiting at least another six months until more had been finished.

            “Let her come, for God’s sake,” Barsad had said. “Sounds like she wants to see you.”

            “She has work to do, as do I. We cannot afford distractions, nor do we want our brothers to know of our past relationship. You know that. And if we were here together, there would be no concealing our past.”

            Bane strode away from the noise of the construction now, into the quiet, deeper darkness of an adjoining tunnel where torches illuminated and sent eerie shadows dancing upon the stone walls and the ceiling, which reached several meters above him. He and his men had explored this world in-depth, an amazing network of spacious, deep chambers and caverns, many cut by an underground river. Enough room to hide an army and contain its supporting supplies. From the very beginning he had felt comfortable here, here away from the light, away from the world’s frenetic bustle. In fact, he knew if he did not push himself, he could easily live out his days here.

            After a time, he stopped and closed his eyes, concentrated on expelling the negative energy that had been consuming him lately, stilling the restless twitch of his fingers.

            Barsad was correct about him, of course, but he refused to let even his lieutenant see this. Yet it was not just his lonely desire to see Talia that tried to dominate his senses lately. His old injuries plagued him. As each year went by, he required stronger doses of morphine and fentanyl, as well as the cocktail of drugs that made up the crystals for his mask. He told no one of this beyond his chemist, but of course Talia and Barsad suspected the truth. And the stronger the drugs, the more they affected his abilities, both mental and physical. Though he could not remember his exact birthdate, he knew he was now over forty years old, and such age caused further deterioration of his reconstructed spine. He needed no radiographs to know that arthritis and disc degeneration were beginning to wreak havoc on his back and were partially responsible for his darkening moods. The opiates only masked the slow destruction. But as with the discomfort of his facial injuries, he would mention none of this to anyone.

            With a sigh of resignation, he sat cross-legged near one wall of the passageway, rested his hands—palms up—on his knees and closed his eyes.

            “No matter how busy you are,” Temujin’s voice returned to him from long ago, “no matter how stressful your situation, you must take time to meditate, you more so than anyone else. It is the only way you will control your pain and your anger.”

            Memories of his beloved friend distracted Bane, and here—alone—he could allow himself a moment of grief. Images of others lost in the destruction of the monastery tormented him as well. Choden, his medical attendant throughout his recovery after his rescue from the pit, a kind, wise Tibetan who had taken much more than a medical interest in his patient; through his patience and friendship, he had taught Bane that there were indeed those who cared about him, whom he could learn to trust. Then there had been Akar. Such a gentle soul. One of the few truly good people Bane had ever known. The boy had revered Bane, and Bane had felt very close to him, not just because of their shared physical debilities but because they had understood each other so well. In Akar, Bane saw the type of young man he might have been if not for being born in the pit or if his mother had not died. She had raised Bane to be moral, to keep himself apart from the violence and corruption around them in prison. But once she had died, his world had changed, and he had had no choice but to use whatever means necessary to survive and to preserve Talia.

            What would Akar be now if Bruce Wayne had not killed him? Would he have continued to serve the League? Bane wished he could have protected Akar, if no one else at the monastery. He could have come here to _’Eth Alth’eban_ where he would have been appreciated and lived happily. Thinking of the boy’s crush on Talia while growing up, Bane smiled to himself. Perhaps instead of living here, Akar could have served Talia in Gotham. The thought pleased Bane. Sure, he had capable operatives with Talia, including Yemi, but Akar would have given Talia a bit of her old home. Akar had taken such good care of her whenever Bane had been away from the monastery. He owed that boy much. And one day he and Talia would avenge him, just as they would avenge all those who had died at the monastery.

            “Bane!” Barsad’s voice stirred him just as he had begun to abandon his sorrow within his early meditation. He growled to himself over the disturbance as Barsad came down the tunnel. Sometimes his lieutenant could be like a mother hen…

            “Bane, it’s Talia on the sat phone,” Barsad said when he had spotted his chief.

            Instantly Bane was on his feet, forgetting his grief and his physical aches. Extending his arm, he impatiently waggled his fingers for the phone that Barsad carried. For a moment he wondered if his meddling friend had initiated the call, but when he saw the concerned curiosity on Barsad’s face, he knew Talia was responsible for contact. Once he had given the phone to Bane, Barsad dutifully retreated.

            “Talia?”

            “Hello, Haris,” came the beloved voice. Since living in Gotham, she never used his real name when communicating in any form. “It is so good to hear your voice.”

            “Is something wrong?”

            “No, but there is a matter I wish to discuss with you.”

            “What is it?” Restlessly, he paced the tunnel, fingers twitching.

            “It’s about a new project being developed by Wayne Enterprises’ R&D department.”

            Simply hearing the Wayne name caused Bane’s fist to clench.

            “It’s a part of their clean energy project. A fusion reactor.”

            Bane’s scientific mind immediately conjured his knowledge of nuclear fusion, a fascinating field of study, one to which the League had devoted considerable funds. Whomever could develop such a reactor—which would provide sustainable, clean energy for any city willing to purchase such—would reap endless monetary benefits. The League would be funded for countless years. And then there was the remote possibility of one day weaponizing such a reactor if only they could find the right mind to develop the technology.

            “What of it?” Bane asked her.

            “We both know the potential such a reactor has.”

            “Of course.”

            “So I propose we invest in Wayne’s program. I believe I can convince Charles to do so. We can use our money through Chase Global as well as more openly invest through my family trust fund.”

            Bane nodded to himself, his mind turning over several possibilities on how to manipulate the situation for the League’s benefit.

            “No doubt my interest and support will endear me to our mutual friend,” Talia continued, using their code name for Bruce Wayne. “I have already made inroads with Mr. Fox.”

            A mental image of Lucius Fox sprang into Bane’s thoughts—Wayne Enterprises’ gray-haired, stately African American CEO, a man who, in truth, was much more to Bruce Wayne than head of his company. Fox was the mastermind behind much of Batman’s technology and the one who held the key to the secret location of Wayne’s vast arsenal, an arsenal Bane had vowed to locate.

            “What are your thoughts, Haris? Do you agree with my decision?”

            “Your decisions are rarely anything but flawless, my dear. This one is no different. Please proceed and keep me closely informed. You will let me know if you need anything to accomplish this?”

            “Of course.” Then she paused, and her business-like tone melted away. “How are you, _habibi_? I miss you.”

            Thinking of the latest man in her life, he bit back his inner response and instead replied, “I’m fine, little mouse. I hope you are, too.”

            Another pause, then she continued, more tentative, “And yet Barsad tells me you are not fine.”

            Bane scowled and glanced down the tunnel in search of his lieutenant, but of course Barsad was nowhere in sight. “Barsad is an old woman, _habibati_.”

            “He is not,” she scolded. “He’s your friend, and he’s concerned. It’s his job to be concerned.”

            “So you admit that he’s assigned to me as my babysitter?”

            “Of course not. Stop it.”

            “Was it he who made this call happen?”

            “No. I called for the purpose I told you—to discuss the reactor.” She sighed in frustration. “Quit being so stubborn.” Again she paused. “You are in pain; I can hear it in your voice. Every time I talk to you, you sound different, older than your years, your voice is deeper and harsher. I can hear the pain. It worsens, though you won’t tell me.”

            “It is nothing you should concern yourself with, Talia. You must focus on your task, as I must upon mine. There is room for nothing else lest we falter.”

            “You never falter,” she said with emotion. “Never. You are my rock.”

            “As I should be.”

            The sigh came again, smaller. “You push yourself too hard. I don’t need Barsad to tell me that. You should take some time away. Rest. Go visit _Jiddah_.”

            “No. I am fine. That is the end of this discussion. Now I must go.”

            “Haris,” the plea in her voice kept him from hanging up. “Are you angry with me?”

            “Of course not.”

            “You can’t lie to me.”

            “I never would.”

            “Then you are protecting me from hearing something.”

            “I keep nothing hidden from you.”

            “You never used to, no. But now…I think you hide many things, personal things, of course; I’m not talking about the League’s commander; I’m talking about my protector. Please don’t push me away. I know there are thousands of miles between us, but you must never think I have forgotten you. I never could. You are a part of me, remember?”

            The sincerity of her words moved him, and he wished he could believe her.

            “And you are a part of me, _habibati_ ,” he murmured. “Always. Now I must go. You must not worry about me. There is, after all, nothing to merit your worry. You must believe me.”

            “I will try,” she said at last, but her words lacked conviction, and after they said good-bye Bane remained alone in the tunnel for some time, taking comfort in the darkness and solitude.


	34. Chapter 34

            The Old City District of the ancient city of Sana’a lay in relative quiet, the remains of the day’s heat trapped there by the surrounding mountains. Though the Yemen sky was clear and filled with stars, there was no moon beyond the obscure profiles of buildings and minarets. Bane had hoped for clouds on this night. Through night vision binoculars he watched from a fourth story rooftop as his men closed in upon a low building across from his location. Anyone without night vision technology would never see the League’s men. They had become one with the night, silent, slipping like spirits from narrow alleys, closing upon the building. Others glided silently from Bane’s roof along lines that took them to the rooftop of the target building—a short distance, for the structures in this district were tightly packed. Though all of Bane’s operatives wore coms, not a word of command was given nor needed, for everyone knew his job intimately, knew his entry point, exit point, and targets. If all went as planned, his men would be in and out of the building within a span of five minutes.

            Barsad, beside him, kept his binoculars trained upon the front door, but as expected no one emerged. No, those inside would not post obvious guards outside. That would draw attention. Instead the armed men would be inside out of sight.

            He glanced at Barsad. As usual during an op, Barsad’s expression was stoic, professional. Bane knew his friend much preferred to be down on the ground with their brothers where the action lay. But his duty was as much to Bane’s safety as it was to the mission. That had not changed in the five years since Barsad had joined the League. On some ops Bane took a more active role, times that Barsad lived for, times when he could use the skills that he had been taught by his brothers, including Bane. But over the years Bane’s old injuries had hampered him more and more, slowing him, leaving him to rely more on physical power than the stealth of his _ninjutsu_. It was something he bitterly regretted, but there was little help for the continued deterioration of his battered body. This reality was yet another reason why Barsad never left his side if at all possible.

            Soon Barsad exchanged his binoculars for his Barrett sniper rifle. Behind the mask, Bane’s scarred lips twisted with sardonic amusement as he thought of how much Barsad loved that rifle. Prior to joining the League, Barsad had lacked the resources to acquire whatever weapons he desired and modify them to his mercenary heart’s content. Bane often teased Barsad that he was certain his lieutenant slept with the Barrett.

            Now Barsad trained the night vision scope upon the target building, ready to eliminate anyone who attempted to enter or cut off the League’s men once they were inside.

            Bane glanced at his watch. One minute more. The seconds ticked off. He used his regulated breathing to count down the time. It took concentration to modulate his breaths so the mask’s amplification did not give away his position while on such operations.

            Barsad spoke into his com, “Hafif?”

            “Inbound,” came the response.

            Bane thought briefly of Hafif from his early days with the League. Hafif had been a part of the small team that had assisted in Bane’s assassination of his grandfather, Thomas Dorrance, and his journey to meet his father, Edmund. The Arab had taken some time to warm up to Bane, but in time he had grown to respect Bane and was now one of Bane’s most trusted operatives. Hafif had been fortunate enough to be away from the League’s Bhutan base when Bruce Wayne had betrayed them all.

            Within seconds it began—Bane watched his men vanish inside the building. Silencers and muzzle suppressors would mask the violence that would be taking place. He glanced at his watch, waited with fingers unwittingly twitching against the binoculars. He easily imagined being inside the building, moving through the rooms with stealth and speed, using his gun and—when necessary—a silent, deadly knife.

            An unexpected memory slipped through his focus—the knife he had had in prison. His mother had acquired it through means unknown to Bane, before he was even able to walk. And once he was old enough to leave his cell under Doctor Assad’s supervision, his mother had him carry the knife with him, secreted inside his teddy bear, Osito. The knife had saved his life on more than one occasion and had killed two inmates as well. Once Talia had been old enough to wield the weapon, Bane had bequeathed it to her. She had carried it with pride because it had belonged to him. But before she had gone to Gotham she had returned it to him, though he had insisted she keep it.

            “It should be yours, _habibi_ ,” she had said. “Your mother gave it to you. It’s all you have left of her. I have Papa’s knife to keep me safe. It’s only fitting that we should each carry something from them to remind us of all that we owe them.”

            As usual, he could argue little against such sound judgment. Since then, he carried the knife with him always. In fact, he rarely carried any other weapon. With Barsad and his obsessive, personal arsenal always near at hand, he required few bullets himself.

            Bane swung his binoculars up the narrow, deserted street. Movement, barely seen. A van with headlights doused rolled into view as anticipated, precisely on time. Its approach was timed exactly, and just as it halted, dark forms emerged from the building, four of them with the two targets. The rest of the tactical team would be vanishing into the night through various other avenues. Hafif’s van had barely come to a stop to gather its passengers before it sped away.

            Without a word, Bane and Barsad stood as one. Barsad shouldered his heavy rifle and drew his pistol. Bane led the way off the roof, his lieutenant covering his back as always.

#

            Jabir al-Gharsi had been with the League of Shadows for two years. Though he was only twenty-seven years old, he now looked much older, thanks to days of beatings and torture at the hands of the CIA agent who—hooded, bound, and gagged ever since the extraction—sat in the rear seat of the SUV with Jabir. While the agent made no sound, Bane—in the passenger’s seat—could easily hear Jabir’s labored breaths as the young man struggled to master his pain. Bane had not allowed the Yemeni to receive any medical treatment prior to being transferred from Hafif’s van to the SUV. To his credit, Jabir had not requested any either.

            The vehicle sped through the night, Sana’a far behind. Barsad, as silent as his passengers, was behind the wheel. Bane calculated that they would reach the airstrip within minutes at this rate of speed.

            As expected, the sleek Challenger 300 awaited them, fueled and ready for take-off. Barsad drove the battered SUV to the edge of the crude runway and switched off the lights.

            “Get him aboard,” Bane rumbled to Barsad.

            Barsad’s glance flicked in Jabir’s direction then back to Bane whose stare never left him. Then his lieutenant nodded and went to retrieve his rifle and gear before roughly escorting the wounded CIA agent from the vehicle. Then Bane moved to the seat the agent had vacated, leaving the door open to allow the cooling desert air inside.

            “Brother,” Bane said to Jabir, his voice quiet but hard.

            Barely awake, Jabir took in a raspy breath. His head lolled back against the seat, one eye swollen shut, both eyes ringed by dark shadows from lack of sleep. His eyelid fluttered as he concentrated on Bane. He wore only a torn, bloody undershirt and dirty underwear beneath a cloaking blanket that one of his brothers had given him in the van. Bane’s large hand rested upon Jabir’s shoulder. The young man sank slightly beneath the weighty grip, his mouth open as he struggled to breathe.

            “What did you tell them, Jabir?” Bane’s question came out in almost a patient, fatherly tone. He could see the man was slipping away from him. He needed information before unconsciousness could reclaim the Yemini.

            Painstakingly Jabir managed to shake his head ever so slightly, his swollen, split lips striving to form the word, “Nothing.”

            Of course Jabir would believe himself to be telling the truth, but Bane knew the power of benzodiazepines and barbiturates upon prisoners. After all, he had employed them himself on enemies of the League, some of whom were now finishing their days in the bowels of the pit prison. Jabir could have said much during his endless days of torment and not even remember what he had revealed.

            Bane’s hand fell away from the young man. He remembered the day Jabir had been initiated into the League. So much pride on the Yemini’s face. He had come from nothing, an orphan living in the streets of Al Hudaydah. Resourceful, he had survived into adulthood and eventually was recruited by al-Qaeda, but he had quickly become disenchanted with the organization. The League had infiltrated the various branches of the terrorist organization, and their Yemini operative had recommended the young man to Bane.

            Jabir did his best to hold onto his commander’s gaze, though the struggle to maintain consciousness was difficult. Apology there, shame. More pronounced than even the physical pain.

            “We cannot afford mistakes, brother,” Bane said.

            Jabir nodded shallowly.

            “You know this, of course,” Bane continued. “And so you know what must be done.”

            “Yes,” Jabir whispered, momentarily closed his eyes as if relieved.

            Bane reached for his Glock. “The choice is yours. By your own hand or mine?”

            Jabir’s shaking left hand came up. Bane knew him to be right-handed, but not enough remained of his right hand to be useful for such a task. With a satisfied nod, Bane removed the safety and handed the pistol to Jabir. The young man’s fingers slowly embraced the grip. Bane could see that it took every remaining ounce of strength and concentration in Jabir to lift the weapon. He looked a final time at Bane, and a weak spark of hope momentarily gave life to his dark eyes, hope that his commander was at least proud of his brave resolve to pay for his failings. Bane, however, showed nothing, nothing but patience until his orders were carried out, then with the report of the pistol still ringing in his ears, he lumbered toward the jet.

#

            Bane relaxed back into the buttery softness of the leather seat and allowed a deep sigh to filter through his mask as he momentarily closed his eyes. Across the aisle Barsad sank into his own seat, now free of his rifle.

            As the jet engines whined into acceleration, Bane opened his eyes, stared aft to the CIA agent who sat on the floor—still bound and hooded—leaning against the bulkhead. Blood had seeped through the crude bandage on his leg where he had been shot. The man squirmed slightly, belying his discomfort. With a scowl, Bane turned away from him and picked up the latest issue of _Science_ from the small table in front of him.

            His fingers easily located the article once again: _The Weaponization of Fusion Reactors_ by Doctor Leonid Pavel. Bane smiled to himself.

            “How many times you gonna read that?” Barsad said with a cocked grin amidst his heavy stubble, his hooded eyes sleepier than usual. “You must have it memorized by now.”

            Bane grunted as he began to read. Indeed, he had devoured the article half a dozen times on the flight to Yemen. And he would read it several times more on the way back to ’ _Eth_ _Alth’eban_. He would indeed have its contents memorized in time.

            His finger jabbed at the photograph of the Russian scientist who had written the paper on which the article had been based. “He is our priority now, brother. Now that this is out in the world our task has just been made even more difficult. We must redouble our efforts.”

            “Well,” Barsad kept his voice as low as he could and still be heard over the engines as the Challenger sped over the jarring airstrip, “hopefully Jabir didn’t compromise the efforts we’ve already made.”

            “I don’t believe he has. But,” Bane’s eyes flicked toward the agent, “time will tell.”

            Once they were airborne, the steward provided both men drinks and food. When Bane had satisfied his appetite and thirst, he donned his mask again.

            “Sleep,” he ordered Barsad. “Our friend will give us no trouble.”

            “If anyone should sleep, it’s you. When’s the last time your head hit a pillow?”

            “I said sleep, brother, not nag.”

            “Humph,” Barsad snorted. And knowing when to argue with his chief and when to refrain, Barsad wisely slumped lower and reclined his seat slightly. But the pistol remained in his grip, though he closed his eyes. “And what are you going to do?” he asked.

            “I’m going to make a phone call.”

            Barsad’s eyes opened with half-hidden alarm and awareness. “With him on board?”

            “It won’t matter what he hears,” Bane said indulgently. “He won’t live to tell anyone.”

            Barsad grinned, though his usual caution tempered the expression. “You have a point.”

            Bane’s inherent wariness, however, urged him from his chair, to a seat just behind the forward bulkhead. There he called Talia. As the phone rang in Gotham, he glanced at his watch. Hopefully she was not in a meeting. In his mind’s eye he saw her in the boardroom at Chase Global, the city as a backdrop beyond the bank of windows, Talia’s slim figure dressed to perfection in high heels and a dark suit, her skirt hugging her just short of indiscretion, her long hair allowed to spill around her shoulders like a sable waterfall. Bane closed his eyes, but instead of the image of a successful businesswoman, he saw Talia in the pit as a child, dressed in threadbare clothing, destitute but smiling, laughing at something he had said or done, somehow happy amidst her utter poverty.

            “Hello?”

            The sound of her voice made him smile before he said, “It is done.”

            “I had no doubts,” Talia replied, a smile of her own in her words. “You never fail, _habibi_.”

            “We extracted the agent who was interrogating him as well.”

            “Good. Did Jabir reveal his true affiliation to him?”

            “He claimed not.”

            “He was tortured, though, of course?”

            “Of course.”

            “So he nor you can know in all certainty exactly what he revealed.”

            “I am confident Jabir remained silent. His training would have given him the tools necessary. But in case I am wrong, we have the operative, and one way or another he will tell us what he gleaned from Jabir.”

            “Very good.”

            Bane glanced aft, toward the table where the science journal lay. “You read the article I told you about?”

            “Yes, several times. Our intelligence about the good doctor was correct, as you assured us. I told Finn that he should never doubt you. He’s learning.”

            “Don’t fault Finn. His over-abundance of caution is an asset most of the time.”

            She chuckled warmly, for she had grown to favor Finn Donnell both professionally and personally, similar to Bane’s relationship with Barsad.

            “Has Finn read the article?” Bane asked.

            “Yes, of course. We discussed it at length.”

            “And if we have read it, then our mutual friend will have read it as well.”

            “You’re concerned?”

            “Yes. The article’s connotations will worry him. We know how closely he protects his technology. And this, above all else, is the most important. You must be attentive.”

            “He is still a recluse. No one can get close to him. You know I have tried.”

            Bane scowled at this, though he knew that he should better control his personal feelings. “I know, _habibati_. You are not at fault. Use your lines of communication with Fox. He will understand your concerns for your investment in the energy project, so your inquiries will be understandable and cause no suspicion.”

            “Yes, of course. I will speak with him this week.”

            “Very good.”

            “Is there anything else, Haris? I wish we could speak longer, but I have a meeting in five minutes with Mr. Chase.”

            “No,” Bane said reluctantly. “That is all.”

            Talia hesitated, a pause heavy with unsaid words, then in a softer voice, she said, “Tell Deadshot hello for me. I spoke with _Jiddah_ yesterday, and she sends her love to both of you.”

            Bane smiled at the thought of Maysam. “I will tell him.”

            “Good-bye, then. Be careful, Haris. Always. I fear you take too many risks these days.”

            “Don’t worry about me,” he said, trying to hide his pleasure at her concerns for him. “Good-bye, little mouse.”


	35. Chapter 35

            Bane lay on his side in bed, propped up on one elbow, watching Talia as she slept. Her long hair lay tumbled about her pillow, untamed and luxurious in the early morning light filtering through the windows of his suite. He remembered their prison days when he and Melisande had always kept Talia’s head shaved to help disguise her gender. Of course the other prisoners had thought it was simply to keep her free of lice. Now Talia’s hair was just like her mother’s when Melisande had first entered the pit, before the prison had stolen its luster.

            Over these past few years there were times, especially whenever Bane shared these rare getaways to Rajasthan with Talia, he wondered if his sexual attraction to her was founded in his old desire for her mother. After all, now nearly thirty years old, Talia looked even more like Melisande than she had when she was younger. No, he told himself as his admiring gaze traveled over her flawless skin, he loved Talia for who she was, not because of the woman from whom she came. How could he not love her when they shared so much history and so much of the same drive, the same goals?

            Thinking back on their lovemaking last night, his happiness waned. They had not been together for almost a year, but it was not the passage of time since their last visit that he sensed to be the true culprit when it came to the changes in his beloved. Subtle changes, true enough. Changes that a lesser man would not perceive. Changes that Talia tried to mask and perhaps thought herself a success at doing. But he knew her far too well to be deceived, though a part of him wished it were otherwise, for her transformation left him hollow.

            Afraid Talia might awaken and read the turmoil in his eyes, Bane carefully extricated himself from Melisande’s blanket without disturbing her. He crept out to the veranda, silently closing the glass doors behind him and settling into his familiar chair, which creaked in protest beneath his two hundred and sixty pounds. The morning was pleasant and cloudless, the air alive with the myriad voices of birds, large and small, throughout the immense palace compound. He sighed and enjoyed the renewed energy flowing through his veins from his time spent in Talia’s arms, the first night of five here, if matters with the League allowed.

            Bane frowned as he reflected upon last night. Though Talia had responded physically to him, there had been an emotional distance, almost a sadness. Since she had gone to Gotham nearly eight years ago, they had successfully left all cares and worries outside of his bedroom. But last night…she had been attempting to hide something from him, surely knowing even as she tried that it was impossible to fool him, even when his passion for her nearly blinded him. Now he debated whether to broach the subject with her or simply to overlook it and hope that her distraction was a passing melancholy that would fade the more she relaxed here in the company of those who loved her.

            His fingers twitched in irritation. Though he always berated himself when his thoughts swam in such shallow depths, he could not avoid the anger and jealousy aroused at the thought of some man of significance being the cause of Talia’s turmoil. Yet how significant could anyone be to her if she willfully came to Rajasthan to be with him? He frowned. Perhaps she had not come for him at all but instead simply to see her grandmother and to find some peace away from Gotham’s crushing demands. It pained him to no end to think she gave herself to him simply out of habit or pity or guilt. But then he scoffed at himself. _You are forty-five years old; she is still in the bloom of youth. No doubt she prefers someone younger, less…battered, but she is too kind to say as much._

            Perhaps it was time he freed her.

            To still his unrest, he breathed deeply, closed his eyes and relaxed into his morning meditation.

            By the time the opening doors disturbed his peaceful trance, the sun had risen high enough to blaze horizontally the length of the veranda. He smelled Talia, felt her presence, searched her energy before slipping out of his meditative state. She smiled mildly, sleepily down at him, dressed only in a red silk kimono. The sun’s rays caught her long, shapely legs; her summer tan had begun to fade. Her glance touched upon the crochet he had left on the small veranda table last night, then she settled into a spacious, cushioned wicker chair just on the other side.

            “It’s nice to feel the warmth,” Talia murmured. “It’s already so cold in Gotham.”

            Bane’s attention went to the distant palace, and he thought of Maysam, saying her morning prayers. She was probably praying for them, for Allah’s forgiveness of her granddaughter’s fornication with an infidel fifteen years her senior. Bane smiled to himself. Of course Maysam did not judge them. No, she only prayed for them and no doubt had since she had learned the full nature of their relationship a few years ago. Neither of them had told her, but it had taken little deduction on her part after she had gone to Talia’s room one night.

            “What are you smiling about, _habibi_?” Talia tilted her head in an effort to see his expression in the morning sunlight.

            “Your grandmother. I was thinking about the night she caught you escaping your room to come be with me.”

            The memory drew Talia’s smile as well, and she chuckled. “Yes, she tried to act so shocked, but of course she wasn’t. When she made a half-hearted attempt to scold me, all I had to do was tease her about Barsad, and she knew then she didn’t have a leg to stand on.”

            “It was her concern because of Amir and Iba, of course,” Bane insisted. “She was afraid of them finding out and causing trouble.”

            “Well, they know about us now.”

            “Yes, I regret that.”

            “I don’t. Narrow-minded fools hiding behind their religion. They only found out because of Iba’s palace spies. I hate her.”

            “Perhaps we should not have come here now that they know. It has caused trouble for Maysam. She claims otherwise, but Hisham has told me the truth of it.”

            “Hisham should not gossip like an old woman.”

            “He is very loyal to your mother, as are all of those who have served her for so long. It pains him to see her upset by the arguments with her brother-in-law and wife. She holds her own, of course, but Hisham sees the emotional damage to her afterwards.”

            “Well, I keep trying to convince her to move to Gotham with me, but she is set in her ways now. But I won’t let Amir and Iba keep me from coming here to see her. And they won’t keep you away either, whether I’m here or not. Fuck them.”

            Bane frowned. He hated hearing her curse. She had never done so before living in Gotham. Yet another change that vile city had affected upon her.

            “I will deal with Amir and Iba,” Bane said. “You must let go of your anger toward them; it would displease your grandmother. Let me handle the situation.”

            Talia sighed and faltered, letting her anger drift away on the gentle breeze that played with the hem of her kimono, rippling it like bloody water. “Thank you, _habibi_.”

            They fell silent for a time, enjoying the dawn. Hisham would be here soon with tea and coffee. Of course the old servant did not approve of Bane and Talia’s shameful liaison, but Bane knew the man well enough to know Talia’s beauty worked upon him as well, as it did any man with eyes in his head. Perhaps Hisham’s closely-held opinion was colored more by envy than religious dictates. The thought drew a smug grin from Bane.

            With a glance at Talia, he saw the distance in her gaze as she stared toward the palace, and his grin died away.

            “Where are you, my little mouse?”

            His voice seemed to take her by surprise, and she quickly tried to recover with a small smile, but her eyes avoided him. “I am right here, of course.”

            “Physically perhaps. But something has taken your mind far from here.”

            She weakly waved a dismissive hand. “There is always something taking my mind away—the League and my father’s unfulfilled destiny, just as such things occupy you as well.”

            “No, this time it is something else with you,” he said quietly, with no rebuke for her effort at deflecting. “You know you cannot deceive me, Talia. This matter has been heavy upon your shoulders since you arrived here. Last night…it was not the same. Only a part of you was with me.”

            With lips pressed in a tight line, she stared downward at her hands in her lap as if interested in her fingernail polish, looking for a flaw. “I’m sorry, Bane.”

            “There is no need to apologize. I am not angry, only concerned.” He wanted to touch her, to draw her attention back to him as he normally would in such a situation, but something that lingered from last night kept him from following his impulse. “Tell me what is troubling you, _habibati_.”

            She gently shook her head once. “Nothing. I’m just tired still from the long flight.”

            “Talia, you know there is nothing we need to keep from one another. We never have.” He peered closer. “Have we?”

            This question seemed to pain her, producing a line across her forehead, just below her small mole, the one that mirrored the one Melisande had had upon her chin. Bane managed to hide the discomfort Talia’s hesitation caused him.

            “When I was growing up,” she began softly, still unable to look at him, “you always thought it was Mama or Papa whom I wanted to make proud. But even more than them, I wanted _you_ to be proud of me. I could bear it when I disappointed them, but I could never bear it when I disappointed you.”

            “You have never disappointed me, Talia.”

            Her despondency increased, the furrow multiplying on her forehead, her beautifully crafted eyebrows knitting. “I have been the cause of so much pain in your life, Bane. I don’t want to cause more.”

            “Nothing could pain me more than your silence, _habibati_.” He waited until she finally managed to look at him. “You must tell me.”

            Talia hesitated, chewing her lower lip. “You know, of course, about my business relationship with Dominic LePage…”

            “Yes, he was instrumental in your appointment to the Board of Directors at Wayne Enterprises.” There was more Bane could say, of course, because he knew everything there was to know about the son of French immigrants who had made their family fortune in America. Bane had made it a priority to be educated about all those who moved within the same circles as Talia. It was the only way he could protect her from afar.

            “Dom and I have worked closely on a number of projects and fundraisers,” Talia continued, her voice a bit stronger.

            Bane’s fingers twitched at her use of the man’s shortened first name, at the familiar way she said it.

            “Over time we have become…good friends. You know I’m cautious about such things. I’ve tried to keep my…associates at arm’s length. And you must never think I would compromise the League or our plans.”

            “Of course not.”

            “But the tabloids have been talking this past year or more about my…detachment when it comes to serious relationships. I don’t want to damage the persona I have necessarily nurtured all these years as one of Gotham’s more socially-conscious philanthropists. A woman viewed as a cold bitch does not find doors opening for her. And we need such doors, as you know. So I thought perhaps Dom would be one of the safer men to allow in.” She faltered momentarily, agitating Bane. “But I’m afraid I have become more involved with him than I had planned.”

            As she had related all this, Bane’s hardened gaze had traveled back to the stone buildings of the main palace, and there it remained as he slowly nodded and asked, “And what does this mean, Talia?”

            She hesitated again, and he could feel her desire for him to look at her, but he could not yet do so. “It means I’ve disappointed you.”

            “How?”

            “How?” she gave a choked, cynical laugh. “I have developed feelings for someone who represents so many of the things we are striving against.”

            “You have had many relationships since going to Gotham. A powerful, beautiful woman who did not engage in such things would be viewed with suspicion. You have done your part to blend into that society, to play a part. I have no concerns that you will lose sight of the League’s plan, your father’s plan, for Gotham, regardless of one man.”

            “Bane.” A near desperate urgency in her tone now as she reached for his hand upon the arm of his chair, the one upon which he wore the brace she had given him. She squeezed his fingers to finally draw his attention back to her. He tried to soften his gaze, but he could tell by the sorrow in her expression that he had failed. “I’m sorry,” she murmured.

            He forced a flicker of a smile, the best he could manage, though he knew it did not fool her. “There is nothing to apologize for. I know you are lonely there. The fact that you have denied yourself love this long is a testament to your strength.”

            “Love? I didn’t say that I love Dom.”

            He gave her hand a returned squeeze before releasing it. “The word does not need to pass your lips when it is so plainly in your eyes, _habibati_ , now and last night.”

            “No, you’re wrong. I care for him, yes, but love…” She shook her head.

            “You deny it because you’ve never been in love before, Talia. Yes, there were the boys in school, but they were just boys, and you were but a child.”

            “I know what love is, Bane,” she insisted almost angrily. “What I feel for you is love.”

            “Of course, _habibati_ ; you love me, but we both know there are many forms of love. And what you feel for me…well, it has changed, as it should. I’ve never had any delusions about our relationship. You must not fear that I will feel jilted by any of this. As long as our plan remains your priority, as I know it will, I do not begrudge your feelings for this man or any pleasant distraction he provides for you.”

            She studied him. “Don’t you get lonely?”

            Bane manufactured a teasing smile. “I have Barsad.”

            His unexpected humor almost made her laugh, but sadness choked the sound before it could escape her. “You know what I mean,” she chided.

            “I only get lonely when I think of you.”

            “Oh, Bane…” She had to turn away, tears threatening.

            “We have talked about this before, Talia,” he said, his tone becoming a bit stern. “I’ve never wanted your pity. There is no reason for it. I am living the life that I have chosen. If I wanted it to be different, I would make it so.”

            “It’s not pity. I want to be with you. I wish we could see more of each other. Perhaps then I wouldn’t have…done what I have done.”

            “Things have happened as they should. You have no reasons for regret.” Laboriously he stood with a grunt, his back protesting his carnal activities. “Now, my dove, you should shower and return to the palace. Your grandmother is expecting you for breakfast. She will be calling soon to scold you.”

            “Bane.” As he passed her, she reached for his hand, stopping him on the threshold. Her large eyes looked up at him, a million unsaid words there.

            He offered a small smile and touched her cheek. “No Gothamite can ever come between us, _habibati_. You have always been a part of me. And you always will be.” Then he pulled away and returned to his room.

            Once Talia was in the shower, Bane got dressed for his usual morning walk through the palace courtyards. The exercise would help loosen up his back and give him time and space to clear some of the turmoil that he had hidden from Talia. As always, he carried his phone with him, for he never allowed himself to be inaccessible to his brothers, even when he was here.

            He passed Hisham on his way out, the servant carrying in the tea and rich-smelling coffee. “Will you be gone long, sir?”

            “I will be back by the time you bring my breakfast, Hisham.”

            Once outside, moving alone with agitated strides across the pavement, Bane allowed some of his restraint to weaken. His fists clenched, and he longed for violence to release some of his pain and anger. The thought of Dominic LePage nauseated him, especially when he imagined him with Talia. The man was toying with her and was clever enough to somehow have fooled her. She was lonely, nothing more, stressed by the double life she led and still haunted by her father’s death as well as his legacy. It was too much for her, Bane lamented. He never should have allowed her to take on this role. LePage would only end up hurting her, and Bane could not let that happen.

            His phone began to ring. A glance at the ID encouraged him to quickly answer.

            “What news, Finn?”

            “I was able to confirm the intel,” Finn Donnell’s voice came through as clear as if he were calling locally. His tone was a bit elevated, as it often was when something of the utmost importance was discussed. “The good Doctor is indeed determined to defect. His government has increased pressure on him and threatened his family should he not turn over all of his research and submit to their designs.”

            “As we expected,” Bane said with a nod, his focus instantly shifting from his personal pain to the requirements of his office. “Our previous efforts to acquire him have been unsuccessful. Perhaps now he will be receptive to a deal proffered by one of our brothers. I will contact Sao to arrange it.”

            “Well, tell him to hurry because we’re not alone in this race.”

            “The Americans?”

            “Aye, among others.”

            Thoughtfully Bane grunted, his mind already compiling information and formulating plans. “I will call him now.”

            “And you’ll inform our sister? Or shall I?”

            Of course Finn did not know Bane was with Talia at her grandmother’s, and this fact made Bane smile a little at the continued success of their deception. “I will talk to her after I speak with Sao. I’m sure she will approve my plans and the funds necessary.”

            “Will you require any of my men for the extraction?”

            “No, Sao’s men will be sufficient. And I will personally lead the op.”

            “Very good.”

            “Keep me informed as to the plans of our American friends.”

            “I will. Our brother, as you know, is highly placed. He’s working tirelessly on this.”

            “You will extend my thanks to him. Give him whatever he needs. It is time we kindle the fire, brother.” Bane paused. “There is one other thing I must discuss with you. An op for one of your best assassins.”

            His stony gaze reached back along the large courtyard to the guesthouse, to the doors of his veranda. He saw Talia standing there, dressed only in a white robe, fresh from her shower, hair wet, a cup of tea in her hand. She was looking at him. Bane turned away, his grip tightening upon the phone.

            Finn’s question pulled him back. “Who is the target, brother?”

            “Our sister’s latest lover.”


	36. Chapter 36

            Bane was alone in the small, warm, windowless room. A fly buzzed around his head, but he paid it no heed as he waited. He glanced at his watch. His men should be here any minute. In anticipation his fingers twitched, his breathing deep and even through the mask. The wheezing, metallic sound made him think of Talia and her recent concerned remark about his respiration and how it had become more labored over the years. The scar tissue in his sinuses often forced him to breathe through his mouth. Coupled with this annoyance was the pain of his old injuries, a pain that worsened every year with age and his body’s strengthening resistance to the drugs. And the increased discomfort did nothing for his daily mood, as Barsad often pointed out.

            Just as Bane’s thoughts touched on his lieutenant, Barsad entered the room and closed the door behind him. His heavy-lidded eyes were troubled as he pulled the _shemagh_ away from his face. His clothing, like Bane’s, was that of a simple citizen of Jaipur, but hidden beneath were two pistols and at least one knife.

            “Where the hell are they?” Barsad groused, pacing.

            “They will be here,” Bane said calmly. “Patience, brother.”

            But he knew his assurance was lost upon his second in command. Since first learning of this operation, Barsad had been torn by indecision. While he understood its necessity and purpose and even approved of it, he had misgivings about its ramifications. He lacked Bane’s confidence that there would be no fall-out, no damage to Maysam.

            “Once they arrive,” Bane said, “your presence is not required, brother. I will do this myself, as I have said I would.”

            “No, I’ll stay here. I wanna see the look on that bitch’s face.”

            Five more minutes passed, then Bane heard the door to the hallway open and the sound of a woman’s muffled voice getting closer. The door to the room opened, and two of the League’s men entered with their captive, a woman dressed in flowing black Muslim dress, hooded. The operatives’ gazes met Bane’s, and he gave a simple nod to dismiss them. They shut the door behind them, but they would not be far.

            The woman flinched at the closing of the door, and her head moved erratically from side to side as if trying to verify that her captors had deserted her. Her rapid, fearful breathing could be heard against her gag, and she struggled with her bindings. Barsad took a step forward and removed the hood with a rough swipe. The unexpected action caused the woman to gasp in surprise and instinctively back away.

            Free of the blinding hood, Iba blinked into the weak light of a single bulb suspended from the low ceiling. Stumbling back toward the door, she stared with widened eyes at Bane and Barsad, paling. With a knife now in hand, Barsad brandished it to frighten her even more and stepped close. She had nowhere to go and so instead cried out against the gag. With one smooth move, Barsad’s blade sliced through the cloth gag, drawing a nick of blood from her cheek. Though relieved he had not slit her throat, she was so alarmed that she could not immediately find her voice. However, it did not take long for a certain amount of indignation to empower her now that she could see her captors were not enemies of her husband’s, as she would have assumed when she had been taken.

            “You,” she uttered, glancing between Bane and Barsad. “What is the meaning of this?”

            “I think you know,” Bane rumbled, stepping closer to her, fingers flexing.

            Iba’s dark gaze viewed him with contempt, the fear overpowered by her arrogance. She was a woman accustomed to doing, saying, and getting whatever she wanted.

            “If I knew,” she sniped, “I would not have needed to ask.”

            “I have been a man of forbearance over the years since Siddig’s death. But I fear my patience has reached an end.”

            Iba’s eyes flicked toward Barsad and the knife in his hand. “Is this some game of Maysam’s? A way to intimidate me? She is a jealous old fool.”

            Barsad barked a laugh. “Jealous of what? She’s twice the woman you are.”

            “She has nothing but that palace, a place that is rightfully mine now.” She glanced behind her. “Untie me at once. I will tell Amir of your insult to his wife, sending thugs to kill my security detail and kidnap me.” Again she looked at Barsad, this time with a small smirk. “One of whom used to work for you. You killed one of your own.”

            Barsad had a smirk to rival hers. “Kazim isn’t dead. Who do you think told us where you’d be today?”

            Color again drained down Iba’s face into her tapered chin. But she quickly rallied. “I said untie me. How dare you treat me this way? My husband will have your heads.”

            Bane stepped even closer, and Iba instinctively pressed against the door. Her effort to appear in control wavered under Bane’s stare, his powerful chest nearly touching her.

            “I warned you,” Bane said with measured words. “I told you and Amir that there would be consequences if you continued to harass Maysam.”

            “Harass? We have allowed her to live where she no longer belongs. I would call that charity, not harassment. But no doubt she has filled your heads with lies about us. After all, what could you know of the real truth when you come to Rajasthan but once a year to defile her granddaughter? If you truly cared about Maysam, you would never dishonor her in such a way. And the same for her whore of a grandchild. But considering who Talia’s father and mother were, I am surprised by none of it.”

            With an irrepressible flare of fury, Bane reached for her. She had time only for a brief gasp before he snapped her neck. He held onto her as the life left her eyes, then he let her body drop.

            “It’s about damn time,” Barsad griped. “You let her go on long enough. She always was a mouthy bitch.”

            Bane turned away, sighed to himself, forced away the rage over Iba’s remarks. “Get her out of here. And make sure they find her body.”

            Barsad dragged Iba away from the door so it could be opened. “I hope you’re right about this, brother. Amir’s gonna know it was you. Maysam isn’t safe there, especially now.”

            “Amir will suspect me, yes, but he will have no proof. The mere suspicion will ensure that he gives Maysam the peace she deserves. Amir will be more relieved that it was his wife’s neck I broke instead of his own. You have nothing to fear, brother, and neither does Maysam. I would not have done this unless I was certain. You should know that.”

            Somewhat sheepish, Barsad nodded. “Well, whatever happens, I’m glad you took the bitch out. It was long overdue.” He could not conceal a small grin. “I only wish you would’ve let me do it.”

#

            Daichi Sao’s voice over the telephone sounded strained and full of displeasure, though he was normally a man who hid his emotions. “I’m afraid the good Doctor has refused our offer, brother. I am sorry that I have failed you.”

            Bane stared into the dark night beyond the SUV’s windshield as the vehicle sped through Jaipur’s streets. “It is no failure, brother. We merely move on to our next step. I assume the Doctor refused us because he received a more…appealing proposition from our American friends?”

            “Of course he would not say, but our brother inside confirmed this.”

            Bane felt Barsad’s curious eyes upon him from behind the wheel of the SUV, but he did not meet his lieutenant’s gaze. “Very well. Does he know where the rendezvous will be?”

            “Yes. I will send the coordinates to you.”

            “Very well. Deadshot and I will head the team.” Bane smiled to himself. “The good Doctor will live to regret his lack of vision. And the Americans as well. They think they have thwarted us, but in reality they have given us an excellent opportunity. I will be in touch tomorrow after I work through the details.”


	37. Chapter 37

            “Tell me you had no hand in this, Bane.”

            Talia’s voice betrayed a tremor, a tremor that resonated with both anger and grief. And the fact that she had called him Bane instead of Haris over the phone warned him of the wrath to come. But the call was no surprise to him, nor was her outrage. He had prepared himself for this since the moment he had given Finn Donnell the assassination orders.

            “In what, _habibati_?” he asked calmly, groggily, for her call had awakened him. The faint odor of cigarette smoke drifted through an open window on the warm morning breeze; Barsad was already up, restless over what lay before them this day.

            “You know very well what I’m talking about—Dominic’s death.”

            “I only heard the news last night. I was unable to call you and express my condolences. As you know, I have pressing matters to attend to.”

            Talia’s irritated sigh conveyed her skepticism. “So you’re saying you knew nothing about this? That you played no part in his…accident?”

            “Why would I have?” He sat up on his mat, suppressing a groan as his back protested.

            “Because you are overprotective. Look what happened with Iba.”

            “You regret my actions?”

            “Not in that matter, no. Of course not. That was for _Jiddah_. She needs protection. It’s not the same with me. Dominic was not a threat, to the League or to me.”

            “You cannot know the future.”

            She paused, seemed to gather herself in order to control her emotions. “I am ultimately responsible for all command decisions. Sometimes you forget that. I’m using this tragedy to remind you.” Then her business-like tone shifted back to the emotional. “He was a good man, Haris. You had no right—”

            “I did not kill your lover,” Bane’s voice grew harsh.

            “Of course you didn’t, not personally. But you gave the order.”

            “I did nothing of the sort.”

            “You would lie to me?”

            Her words cut him, made his deception even more painful. Of course he did not regret his actions, but he did regret causing her such grief. Yet it had all been necessary. Someday she would see that.

            Bane clenched his jaw ruefully and said, “ _Habibati_ , I have never lied to you.” _Until today_.

            “I want to believe that…but in this I can’t. When I told you about Dominic and me, you did your best to hide your emotions from me, but I saw the hurt it caused you. That’s why I didn’t want to tell you about him.”

            “What you saw,” Bane growled, “was concern for your safety and the safety of the League, especially right now. We are at a critical juncture in our endeavors to achieve your father’s ultimate goal. We cannot take the chance of—”

            “Don’t you think I realize that? Of course I do. Why do you think I live where I live and have done all the things I’ve done? Do you think I’ve enjoyed it all? That I’ve relished my high living while those I care about fight in the darkness and die for my father’s memory, for me? It makes me almost insane to think of it, to bear it. Being with Dominic, having someone here with me…it allowed me to keep my sanity and continue our work.”

            Bane steeled himself against her logic, forced calm into his words, “You are distraught, _habibati_ , and I am about to undertake a critical operation; now is not the time to have this discussion. Do you not agree?”

            Talia struggled to respond.

            “There is a very real chance,” he continued, “that I will not return from this. I would deeply regret our last words being cross ones.”

            As he had hoped, this tactic stopped her in her tracks, defused her anger, and she murmured, “Haris, don’t say that. Of course you will return. And you will be successful. No one is ever more prepared than you for whatever task lies before you. I have all the confidence in the world in you, as our brothers do. The fire will rise.”

            A small smile of satisfaction stirred his scarred lips.

            The voices of Farooq Nehru’s grandchildren reached him through the walls of his room, a most pleasant sound that made him think of Talia’s childhood, of the loving little girl who had looked to him for everything in her life and had given him a constant purpose.

            “Yes,” he said. “The fire will rise.” Slowly he stood, straightened his stiff back, allowed Talia to hear the discomfort in his quiet groan, knew it would further work toward softening her. “Now I must say farewell, _habibati_. I must replenish the mask and be about my business. There is much to be done this day, and Deadshot is standing outside my window, glaring impatiently at me. His cigarette supply is running low, and there is no coffee, so he’s particularly churlish.”

            His further effort to defuse the tension succeeded only in producing a barely perceptible sigh from Talia, almost a huff, telling him that she was not done with this battle quite yet, that they would revisit it. But for now he had disarmed her anger and used their affection for one another as a deflecting shield.

            Talia’s tone took on an icy ring to reestablish her authority, “I will await your report on the operation.” Then she ended the call.

            For a long moment Bane stared at the phone before releasing a sigh of his own. Moving slowly, he shrugged into a tight-fitting black shirt. His arms were too long for the sleeves, so he shoved them up toward his elbows. Then he pulled on his well-worn, faded gray combat pants. Into one of the large front pockets he slipped a small container with several crystals for his mask. It was difficult to say how today’s mission would end, and thus he wanted to have these doses near at hand in case he was separated from his regular supplies. He glanced at his back brace on a nearby chair and regrettably reminded himself that he would have to pack it away today, for he knew intelligence agencies identified it as a typical part of him. After lacing on his boots, he refreshed the mask’s canisters and donned a _shemagh_ to conceal his mask from any American surveillance drones that might pass overhead. Then he lumbered outside into the early morning sunlight, trying his best to forget his tense conversation with Talia.

            Barsad was no longer alone. Nehru hunkered beside him close to the wall of the small house, sharing occasional puffs of Barsad’s cigarette. The Afghani looked old beyond his years, much older than he had back on that mountain near Kargil. Wounds had forced him to leave his days as a fighter behind and return to his home here near Tāloqān where he lived with his family as well as that of his youngest son. Their land near the Khanabad River produced rice, but this was not Nehru’s only income. Bane made sure his former brother-in-arms was compensated for allowing members of the League to occasionally stage operations from his farm.

            “Good morning, old friend,” Nehru said, shading his eyes. “I apologize again for the meager sleeping arrangement.”

            “It must not have been too meager,” Barsad grinned and chuckled. “He slept beyond our time. It’d seem he’s only awake now because of a phone call, one that looks to have put him in a familiar black mood.” He took a long pull then relinquished the stub of the cigarette to Nehru to finish.

            Inside the small, low house, Nehru’s grandchildren had grown more boisterous, demanding breakfast be served quicker than their mother and grandmother had the ability to prepare it. One boy complained to his father, and his usage of the title Baba drove an unexpected splinter into Bane’s heart when he remembered Talia’s toddler name for him in prison. Even as an adult, she had sometimes used the name when in a playful mood, but since moving to Gotham she had never uttered it again, and he feared that after what he had done to Dominic LePage, there would be no such endearments between them ever again.

            “Your accommodations are appreciated, Farooq, as is your hospitality. It was unnecessary to give us our own room. The barn would have been sufficient.”

            “Giving us our own room wasn’t for your sake, brother,” Barsad smiled. “Your snoring would’ve scared the bejesus outta the kids and kept everyone else awake.”

            Now it was Nehru’s turn to chuckle as he flicked the cigarette butt toward the chickens that scratched and clucked quietly nearby.

            “I see your vile cancer stick has returned your good humor, brother,” Bane grumbled.

            “Something has to. I know you won’t.” He winked at Nehru.

            Nehru’s grin lacked several teeth. “Still arguing like brothers, I see, even after all these years.” He used the earthen wall behind him to help regain his feet. “It sounds like a firm hand is needed inside to frighten my grandchildren into submission, so I will leave you two to squabble like my chickens. Breakfast should not be far off.” With that he entered the house and began to admonish the children with very little vitriol.

            Bane started away from the house to take his usual morning walk to free up his stiff joints, and whether he wanted company or not Barsad soon caught up with him and walked a stride behind, as if waiting for permission to accompany him.

            “I take it Talia’s phone call wasn’t about the mission,” Barsad ventured at last.

            Bane glanced unhappily back at him. “You were listening to the conversation, of course, so I think you know the answer.”

            Barsad drew up beside him. Bane did not slow as they climbed a small bluff not far from the river. At the summit he paused to gaze out over the fields which would soon be planted with rice for the new season. Low, dusky mountains rose on all sides, beyond the greening landscape of this valley, which appeared like a large oasis in Takhar province, Afghanistan, where Uzbeks, Tajiks, Hazara, and Pashtuns—Nehru’s people—farmed the land or mined coal, salt, and gold. A pastoral setting indeed, one that made it easy to forget the eleven-year-old war ravaging the country.

            “Well,” Barsad said with a small, crooked grin, “it wasn’t so easy to hear through the window. But I did catch something about condolences. Who died?”

            Bane stared toward the northwest, toward Uzbekistan. “Talia’s lover.”

            Barsad hesitated, eyebrows raised in interest. He grunted. “How’d that happen?”

            With a flick of his eyes, he easily saw Barsad’s correct assumption in his slightly amused expression. “Auto accident.”

            “Really?” Barsad pulled a face and nodded, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Well, you just never know, do you?”

            Bane turned back toward the northern mountains, beyond which lay the Tajikistan border.

            “So I take it Talia wasn’t buying the accident scenario, huh?”

            “In this matter she can believe what she likes.”

            “Hmm. Careful, brother. She is the boss, after all.”

            “Talia knows my decisions are in the League’s best interests.”

            “Judging from your conversation, I’d guess she didn’t quite agree with you this time.”

            Bane stared at him, eyes hard, like his voice. “She will understand in time.”

            “You can’t kill ’em all, you know.”

            “After she recovers—which she will quickly do, for she is nothing if not resilient—she will regain and renew her focus on the mission. That is what’s important here, brother.”

            “Bane.” Barsad stepped in front of him, to give Bane no choice but to look at him fully. “It’s just us two out here. We can be honest with each other, eh?”

            “I have said nothing dishonest to you.”

            “’Course not, but you’re also so full of shit. Listen, I get it. You love her; it drives you nuts to think of her with other men, especially guys like that. That’s no secret to the three of us. So don’t play games with her or you might wreck more than your personal relationship with her.”

            With anyone else Bane would have growled back a harsh response, but with Barsad he could not. He knew his lieutenant, as usual, was speaking objectively and with the concern of a true brother and friend, the only one he had. And as Barsad had pointed out, it was just the two of them here. If they could not speak plainly now, when could they?

            “She is lonely,” Bane quietly said, his gaze softening with empathy. “It has made her vulnerable. Vulnerability is dangerous. You cannot show your underbelly to the enemy.”

            “Talia’s no fool. She must’ve had good reason to trust the guy.”

            “As I said, she is lonely.”

            “And she’s gonna be a lot lonelier now, you big dumb fuck. Did you ever consider that before you smashed his car or whatever it is you did? No doubt you had his balls chopped off, too, huh?”

            Bane gave him a sharp glance then turned to begin walking again, a part of him wishing his friend would remain behind. “We must focus our attention on more important matters right now, brother.”

            “Yeah, sure,” Barsad said, keeping pace with him. “Your bat-shit-crazy plan to get yourself killed. I’m tellin’ you, Bane, that airplane is no place for the League’s CO, dammit. Listen to me and let me go instead.”

            “We have had this discussion too many times, Barsad. And again I will point out the obvious: only I have the physical strength that this mission requires.”

            “We can rig the bindings so I can break free—”

            “We are not dealing with Chechen or Arab militants, brother. The CIA agent and his special forces would certainly discover the deception before the plane even left the ground. Then all would be lost. This is an opportunity we cannot lose. If the world believes Dr. Pavel to be dead, our plan can move forward with impunity.”

            Barsad frowned with reluctant understanding as Bane continued to lumber along. “You should at least let me trade places with Umarov,” Barsad grumbled.

            “No. I will not take the chance of depriving the League of both of us should the mission fail. You have a part to play in this, brother, but this time it will not be at my side.” He allowed himself to bestow a small smile upon his friend. “If it makes you feel better, know that I will regret your absence. Umarov is a good man, but of course I would prefer to have you with me.”

            “That’s supposed to placate me, shut me up?”

            “I fear there is no chance of shutting you up, brother.”

            “Damn straight,” Barsad mumbled. “Maybe if I keep hammering you, some sense will penetrate that thick skull of yours.”

            Bane’s smile died as he turned away from the river and caught sight of dust rising in the distance, out upon the long, crude lane that approached Nehru’s house and outbuildings.

            In a deep, sober voice Bane said, “In case I do not return from this mission, brother, there is something I must ask of you.” He halted to watch the vehicle, an older SUV. In satisfaction, he nodded to himself. Barsad’s attention went to the vehicle as well, which distracted him a moment from Bane’s serious tone. “If I fall, I want you to relinquish your rank to Finn Donnell so that you may devote yourself completely to Talia’s safety.”

            Barsad’s startled gaze snapped to him, and it took him a moment to recover. Then he gruffly retorted, “Nothin’s gonna happen to you. Quit talkin’ bullshit. Now here comes Umarov; early as usual, the bastard. Just in time to deprive me of breakfast, damn him.” He started to step away from Bane, but a meaty hand clamped around his arm.

            “You will give me your pledge, brother.”

            Barsad stared back at him. “Nothin’s gonna—”

            “Your pledge, John.”

            Barsad glanced back toward the vehicle as if stalling for time, then his attention bounced from Bane’s grip to his unwavering eyes. “You know I will always serve, brother. I will always protect Maysam’s grandchild.” He attempted to recover some of his humor, a wry smile twitching one corner of his thin lips. “Even though she’s more of a pain in the ass than you are.” He pulled away from Bane’s loosened grip. “Now, c’mon. Let’s go say hello to Doctor Pavel.”


	38. Chapter 38

            Bane watched Barsad grab hold of Dr. Leonid Pavel and drag the hooded physicist from the faded blue Mitsubishi. The vehicle had purposefully halted directly next to the door of Nehru’s house so Pavel could be concealed immediately within. As Barsad hustled the Russian inside, Bane turned to his four men who disembarked from the SUV.

            “Excellent work, brothers. We will be on our way shortly. While I brief our esteemed guest, Nehru will see that food is brought out to you.”

            Before entering the house—a much quieter setting now that the children were busy eating—Bane’s glance last rested upon the youngest of his four operatives, men Bane had hand-picked for this mission. The young man instantly straightened with pride, a small, expectant smile amidst his early growth of beard. The fire of anticipation and excitement burned in him, smoldering, waiting to flare. Bane offered a slight nod to further bolster the youth’s courage; he would need it. The smile broadened.

            His name was Dimitri Zakayev, tall and handsome with shaggy brown hair and chocolate eyes brightened by Bane’s compliment. His father had fought with Bane in Chechnya. There Bane had not only saved his father from death in two firefights but had rescued him from Russian forces. For this, he had earned Dimitri’s undying loyalty, and over the past couple of years the young man had come to idolize Bane. It was that blind devotion that had caused him to select Dimitri for today’s mission. He knew the Chechen would do whatever was asked of him and gladly so.

            Barsad had taken Pavel to Bane’s room where he now knelt on the floor, still hooded. When Bane entered, he said to his lieutenant, “Untie him,” and waited as Barsad obeyed. “Leave us,” he commanded, and as the door closed behind Barsad, Bane removed the black hood from the physicist and stood before him.

            Pavel was a small, frail-looking man with a full head of disheveled, graying hair. His face, dominated by bushy eyebrows and large nose, was lined and aged beyond his years, no doubt from the stress he had endured since the publication of his paper on nuclear fusion reactors. A man hounded and haunted by agents from around the globe, both legitimate and not. Now free of the hood, Pavel squinted at Bane’s legs, then his brown eyes traveled up his captor’s mountainous form to the mask. In terror and revulsion he fell away from Bane and scrambled to his feet.

            “Who—who are you?” he asked in Russian.

            Bane said nothing.

            “Where is my family? What have you done with them?”

            “Your family is safe,” Bane replied in flawless Russian, “for now.”

            “I demand to see them.”

            “You are in no position to demand anything, Doctor.”

            Pavel backed closer to the door, glanced toward the open window in vain hope of escape. “Who—who are you? _What_ are you?”

            “I am the man whose generous offer of employment you recently and so foolishly rejected.”

            “What have you done with my family?”

            “They are being taken to a distant location. One that neither you nor anyone else, including your American friends, will ever find. Only myself and the men transporting them know their destination. And if you are considering any foolish attempt to escape, think of your loved ones before you do so. One by one they will be eliminated…in a most unpleasant way.”

            Pavel swallowed hard, tried to hold himself together. “What do you want from me?”

            “In time, that will be fully revealed to you, Doctor, but not now. There is no need for you to worry about such things today. You have but one task to accomplish for me today, which you will do in order to safeguard those you love.”

            “What—what is it?”

            “We are going to meet up with your American contact. You will be with us. My brothers will take the place of those who were sent to collect and deliver you to the airfield in Uzbekistan.”

            “The men they murdered in cold blood,” Pavel gritted out the sentence, unable to hide his indignation and disgust.

            “Trust me, Dr. Pavel, those men have killed just as many men as we have.” He paused. “When we reach the airfield, you will play your part as if everything is going according to the Americans’ plan. We will board the plane that awaits you, you as the liberated scientist and myself and two of my men as their prisoners.” Bane loomed over the trembling man. “And you will give nothing away. If you do, your family—and possibly you—will pay the price for your poor judgment.”

            “What good will this do you? Why turn me over to the Americans after you’ve captured me?”

            “Our reasons are no concern of yours, Doctor. All you must concern yourself with is behaving in a convincing manner during this operation. You will speak only when spoken to. Do you understand?”

            Pavel forced another difficult swallow. “How will I know that you will keep your word about my family? Perhaps they are dead already.”

            “Killing your family at this point would not be profitable for us. Rest assured they are alive. But how long they remain alive is entirely up to you. Once today’s mission is over and your wife and children are relocated, I will provide proof of life to you.”

            A quiet knock sounded at the door, and Barsad stepped inside, carrying a bowl.

            “Now, Doctor,” Bane continued. “You have five minutes to eat before we begin our journey. I suggest you do so to keep up your strength. You will need it this day.”

            After handing the food over to Pavel, Barsad drew his Glock. The scientist backed away toward the corner, mouth open in fear. Bane gathered his gear before turning toward the door.

            Pavel conjured enough courage to ask one last question, “Who are you working for? Though you speak my language, I can tell you are not Russian.”

            Bane halted near the door, shrugging his pack over one shoulder. He eyed the pale man. “My brothers and I work for no one. We work instead for an ideal. An ideal of justice. And you, Dr. Pavel, will help us deliver that justice to the world.”

#

            Bane had welcomed the dark hood that one of his men had draped over his head, the same that Umarov and Dimitri wore. He now sat between the two in the rear seat of the speeding SUV, his broad bulk squeezing the two smaller men against the sides of the vehicle, crowded even more by the two operatives posing as their guards. An uncomfortable situation, for the Mitsubishi bounced painfully along across a broad field. By now they would be close to the airfield and thus had adopted the appearance of captured mercenaries, men who had attempted to kidnap Dr. Pavel. They were stripped of everything but shirt, pants, and boots, their hands bound awkwardly behind them with zip-tie cuffs. Without the familiar back brace, Bane’s body already protested the jouncing ride. Barsad drove the vehicle, and he had never concerned himself with providing a smooth ride under any conditions.

            Before leaving Nehru’s farm, Barsad had tried one last time to dissuade Bane from his leading role in this operation, but Bane had quickly silenced him with a glaring growl. Obedient but displeased, Barsad had climbed behind the wheel of the SUV, a sickly looking Leonid Pavel in the passenger seat.

            It took several hours to drive to the Uzbekistan border and cross over at a remote spot, undetected. During those long hours of near silence, Bane easily sensed Barsad’s growing concerns and felt the weight of his regular glances in the rearview mirror. Behind the mask, Bane smiled wryly. He suspected Barsad’s true worry was not about his commander but instead about Talia—he would be the one responsible for reporting the mission’s failure and Bane’s death if things went awry today. Yet Bane knew in his own unshakable self-confidence that Barsad had nothing to worry about. He only wished he could convey that to his lieutenant.

            Under the soothing cover of the hood, Bane closed his eyes and compelled himself to relax even more, to review the entire plan again in his mind. He did not second guess himself. No, his men were well-trained and reliable, and they had prepared themselves thoroughly for today. The C-130 Hercules would arrive precisely on time, the pilot and co-pilot well-versed in low altitude flying, the tactical team aboard her consisting of the League’s most daring men, men who lived for such challenges. Yes, they would all play their parts today, like a well-oiled machine, like matches to wood, lighting the fire.

            Unexpectedly Bane thought of Temujin and Rā’s al Ghūl. What would each of them say about this plan? Would Jin have thought him mad? Perhaps, but Jin would have still been at the forefront, insisting—like Barsad—that he be a direct part of it. And what of Rā’s? Surely the man would approve of this mission. He would understand all that was at stake. He would see how Bane was prepared to do whatever was necessary to achieve the League’s goals. Would he be proud? Could Talia’s father now understand the mistake he had made by excommunicating him?

            The darkness of the hood reminded Bane of his ability as a boy in the pit to navigate throughout the prison even on the darkest of nights, like an owl or a cat. He had been proud of such a skill, for he could move about any part of the prison and listen in on conversations between other prisoners, learn about them, know ahead of time if more than one were planning some incursion or violence against other inmates.

            He remembered his conversation with Talia about finding solace away from the world’s brightness, as he did amidst the growing sanctuary of ’ _Eth Alth’eban_ or as he had in the tunnels beneath Gotham when he had met the Joker. Now that they had Dr. Pavel, he planned to visit those Gotham tunnels again. He had learned much about them since his visit. They would become the staging ground for the League’s assault on Gotham, a build-up that would take place, unseen, right under the elevated noses of Gotham’s elite.

            Bane redirected his focus back to the moment, to the mission, just as he heard one of his men quietly inform, “We’re here.”

            Dimitri stiffened at these words, and Bane murmured, “Calm, brother. Remember your training.” Then to his other men, “The aircraft? Is it as we had anticipated?”

            “Yes, sir. A Bandeirante turboprop.”

            Bane grunted his satisfaction. “And how many men do you see?”

            “Four military. One civilian. Might be more inside the plane, though.”

            Bane nodded to himself.

            The spring air had a chill to it when he stepped from the SUV. He moved with loose, confident strides under the guiding hand of his armed escort, brought to the front of the vehicle with Umarov and Dimitri. Even through the hood and his mask, he could hear the CIA agent introduce himself, a man who sounded cocky and self-assured when he addressed Dr. Pavel.

            “He was not alone,” Barsad interjected with a convincing Chechen accent.

            “You don’t get to bring friends,” the agent said to Pavel with displeasure.

            Bane listened closely for Pavel’s response, ready should the Russian betray them. “They are not my friends,” came his terse reply.

            “Don’t worry,” Barsad assured in an almost amused voice. “No charge for them.”

            “And why would I want them?” the agent smugly asked.

            “They were trying to grab your prize. They work for the mercenary—the Masked Man.”

            A pause of shock. “Bane?” Incredulity in the agent’s query.

            Bane could imagine the spark in Barsad’s blue eyes, the slight smile amidst his sprouting beard as he thought of what lay in store for the American.

            “Get ’em on board,” the agent ordered his men, excitement in his voice. “I’ll call it in.”

            As one of the Americans stepped forward and grabbed Bane’s arm, Bane heard his own men return to the vehicle. They would be taking with them a briefcase full of American dollars, payment by the CIA for what was believed to be services rendered by Barsad’s men. Bane grinned sardonically beneath the mask. The United States government had now handsomely and directly contributed to the financial well-being of the League of Shadows.


	39. Chapter 39

            Bane had a clock inside his head, and it had been ticking steadily since he had been prodded aboard the airplane. Even as he was acutely aware of everything around him—the noise of the turboprop, the movements of the individual men in the small confines, the careful modulation of his own breathing so the distinct sounds of the mask would not yet reveal his identity—he was just as aware of the passing minutes. The C-130 Hercules would already be stalking this aircraft, flying almost as low to remain as undetectable by radar as possible. The region was remote, perfectly so in Bane’s planning. Indeed the entire plan for the operation had been his creation, and he had drilled the absolute necessity of precise timing into the minds of all of his men. This needed to be accomplished here in this isolated region of Uzbekistan before they were within reach of American or allied assistance.

            From where he knelt in the aisle, he calmed his mind for a moment, tried to hear beyond the metallic rattles and whining props, tried to hear the presence of the C-130. Any minute now… But his endeavors were hampered by the CIA agent who raised his voice to be heard over his environment.

            “The flight plan I just filed with the agency lists me, my men, Dr. Pavel here, but only one of you!”

            Continued arrogance in his voice. Bane’s lips twisted with amusement. He would enjoy killing this one.

            Movement behind Bane and to his left as one of the soldiers stirred, then the squeal of the fuselage’s rear door being opened, followed by the howl of wind and its frigid charge inside.

            “First one to talk gets to stay on my aircraft,” the agent challenged.

            _His_ aircraft, Bane scoffed. _Fool. This plane is already mine_.

            Dimitri was beside him, also kneeling, Umarov somewhere close behind, along with two of the soldiers. Bane knew all of this even through the darkness of the hood. Now one of the soldiers took hold of Dimitri and dragged him toward the open door. Closing his eyes for a moment, Bane willed his young operative to remain passive, silent, and brave as the agent pressed close to him.

            “Who paid you to grab Dr. Pavel?”

            Of course Dimitri said nothing. Perhaps, Bane wondered wryly, the Chechen was thinking of that blonde girlfriend of his back home, the one who knew nothing about her boyfriend’s true activities. Yes, that would be a helpful distraction from the threat of being flung from a speeding aircraft.

            A pistol discharged in the doorway, but Bane did not flinch.

            “He didn’t fly so good,” the agent claimed.

            Bane knew it was a bluff. The agent would consider his prisoners too valuable to simply shove even one of them out into space. No, Dimitri was still alive, still silent, deposited behind him.

            “Who wants to try next?” the agent queried.

            Bane knew they would save him for last, if they got to him at all before the C-130 arrived. Being the largest of the three, he would be viewed as potentially the strongest in body and will, so the agent would work first on the two smaller men. Meanwhile the clock in Bane’s head told him it was time. If that door remained open, he would soon hear the large transport plane’s engines, something he did not want his captors to hear. He would soon need to distract the agent from his current path.

            Umarov was next. The blinding light through the doorway allowed Bane to make out movement as the agent settled over top of Umarov as he had with Dimitri, gun in hand. Bane could hear the violent rippling of his comrade’s hood in the wind.

            “Tell me about Bane!” the agent shouted. “Why does he wear the mask?”

            There would be no images of a girlfriend to be used as a calming distraction for Umarov, Bane knew. The Chechen was a cold, professional killer. Had been his entire life, fighting first in the army and then in one place or another until Bane had welcomed him into his ranks in Chechnya years ago after his wife and children had been murdered by the Russians. No, Umarov would simply be dangling halfway outside the plane, thinking of nothing but the arrival of that C-130 and his own role in what was coming.

            The CIA agent waited for Umarov to answer his question, to provide a scrap of information about the notorious Masked Man. Just a couple of beats during which Bane allowed himself some smug satisfaction, knowing how he had led agencies like the CIA a merry, mysterious chase throughout the years since his participation in the Kargil War, indeed even since his time in the League. He would be a feather in the cap of any agent who could take him into custody. Well, Bane thought, in a few months they would all see him, the entire world, right on their television sets in their comfortable, safe living rooms.

            “A lot of loyalty for a hired gun!” the CIA agent complained, his frustration seeping through now.

            Bane decided it was time to make the American’s day. He looked forward to the agent’s reaction when the hood came off.

            Filling his lungs with the chilled air, Bane spoke with derision, “Or perhaps he’s wondering why someone would shoot a man before throwing him out of a plane.”

            A pause. The agent staggered back toward him. The door closed.

            “At least you can talk,” the American said. “Who are you?”

            “It doesn’t matter who we are,” Bane said with a lightness in his tone. “What matters is our plan.” The metallic quality of his voice rang against the fuselage walls, and undoubtedly this is what drew the deathly silence that followed his words.

            The agent crouched before him. Bane stared straight through the hood, knowing right where the man’s eyes were even without seeing them; he could feel the American’s shocked look. Hesitation, then the agent gradually lifted the hood. Bane never blinked, never flinched at the sudden rush of light and color, his unwavering stare boring into the agape agent.

            “No one cared who I was till I put on the mask.” And no greater truth was there than that, Bane reflected sardonically. Ah, yes, but they cared now.

            The agent seemed fascinated by the mask, more so than by anything else. “If I pull that off, will you die?”

            “It would be extremely painful…”

            “You’re a big guy.”

            “…for you.”

            The agent scowled at Bane’s sarcasm and attempted to reestablish his authority by sniping, “Was getting caught part of your plan?”

            His amusement growing as each second brought the C-130 closer, Bane replied in a bright, flippant voice, “Of course!” Then his mental clock told him it was time to finish playing with this weak-minded fool. “Dr. Pavel refused our offer in favor of yours. We had to find out what he told you.”

            From two rows up, panic rang in Pavel’s voice as he insisted, “Nothing! I said nothing!”

            Bane panned a deadly stare at the Russian, displeased that Pavel had spoken even this much. His glare commanded the scientist to say nothing else, to follow the orders he had been given.

            The plane began to shudder and rattle, as if buffeted by the turbulence of a storm. Bane smiled grimly behind the mask, careful not to let the expression reach his eyes. _Our brothers are here_ , he thought with satisfaction. _Right on time_.

            The CIA agent paid no attention to the changes in the aircraft’s behavior, too deafened by his own arrogant belief that he was in control of the situation, that he was now Bane’s master. Of course he would be anticipating a promotion within the agency for acquiring the infamous Masked Man. _Yes_ , Bane thought again, _I will enjoy killing this one and watching his overconfidence wilt away_.

            “Well, congratulations,” the agent mocked. “You got yourself caught.”

            The soldiers behind the agent had taken note of the plane’s odd noises and a new, deep hum from above. _Good fighters, no doubt_ , Bane thought distantly. But not good enough. One, peering out the window, tried to gain the agent’s attention with a concerned, “Sir?”

            But the agent was too absorbed in his interrogation, his facial expression filled with contempt as he baited Bane, “Now what’s the next step of your master plan?”

            “Crashing this plane,” Bane calmly said and watched confusion wash over the American’s face, obliterating the condescension. Through the windows, the moving shadows of the League’s men suspended on cables from the C-130 caught the corners of Bane’s eyes. Now was the time. He reared to his feet, loudly finished his threat, “With no survivors,” all play gone from his persona as his powerful arms spread and snapped the zip-tie cuffs.

            Gunfire exploded through the windows, glass and bullets filling the cabin. Two of the soldiers at the front of the plane fell. Before the agent could react to the violence around him, Bane grabbed him, smashed a driving right-handed blow to his neck, crushing his windpipe, driving him back into the man immediately behind him. Before the soldier could disentangle himself from the agent’s heavy, limp form, his feet went out from under him as the cabin floor suddenly sloped away.

            The chaos in the plane did not affect Bane. Calmly he gripped the back of one of the seats, having expected this gravitational shift, kept himself from tumbling downward toward the cockpit bulkhead as the plane canted vertically, pulled thus by the C-130’s cables that his men outside had embedded into the turboprop’s fuselage. The two soldiers who had been trying to subdue Umarov and Dimitri in the rear of the plane fell past him, trying in vain to halt their descent but instead crashing downward into their comrades, including the dead agent. Pavel, screaming in fear, remained buckled into his seat, a fortuitous precaution on his part, for it kept him from slamming into the bulkhead with the others. Umarov and Dimitri clung to the rear seats as the wind through the broken windows shrieked throughout the cabin, sending small bits of debris swirling.

            The plane vibrated and shuddered as the forces of nature took over and ripped away its wings. Bane vaguely imagined the frantic pilots’ confusion and terror as their airplane was shredded before their eyes. From their now-downward perspective, they would be unable to fully see the Hercules’s massive cables used to pull the turboprop into its current incredible state.

            As he hung effortlessly by his right arm, Bane twisted around so he could look downward through the aisle. He stabilized his movement with a right boot pressed against a seat. A guttural growl of satisfaction emanated from the mask as he viewed the pile of Americans against the bulkhead below. He needed to get lower, close to Pavel and away from the tail section before his men outside could detonate the explosives that they would have affixed to the plane. Any second now.

            Letting go of the rear seat, Bane dropped, feet first through the aisle. With outstretched arms against seatbacks, he halted himself a couple of rows down, closer to Pavel’s frozen form. The anticipated explosions rocked the wounded plane, and daylight poured down from above as the tail section sheared away, adding to the shower of debris dancing on the wild air currents inside. The Americans’ equipment that had been stored in the tail was sucked out.

            Movement below. One of the soldiers lived still, and he struggled to produce his pistol. Just as the fumbling man fired a shot, Bane swung his bulk from the aisle, took cover among the seats. The soldier did not get a second shot; Bane’s operatives rappelled in through the gaping hole in the tail, firing Uzis as they came, ending all resistance.

            Suspended on cables, they arrived with a body bag, one that was occupied. Their black, masked forms offered a stark contrast against the glaring light of the sky beyond them and the looming white and gray bulk of the C-130. Umarov, now devoid of cuffs and hood, went to work, grabbing hold of the body bag and opening it as one of the tactical team members freed Dimitri of his restraints. Bane, his feet spread across the aisle to stand on the backs of two seats, reached for the stunned Dr. Pavel, grasped his right arm and extended it. From the body bag, Umarov handed Bane a length of flexible, clear tubing. Using a needle affixed to one end of the tubing, Bane pierced a broad vein in Pavel’s arm, as quick and neat as he used to do it in the pit prison under Dr. Assad’s tutelage. He paid no attention to the scientist’s terrified cries and protests as Umarov pressed rhythmically against the corpse’s chest, drawing Pavel’s blood through the tube into the dead man’s body. Bane glanced at the corpse to assure himself that his men had indeed acquired someone who looked very similar to Dr. Pavel, a likeness close enough to fool those who would investigate today’s events, a body that would be mutilated and burned by the plane crash but whose veins would contain identifying blood from Leonid Pavel.

            Without missing a beat, Bane withdrew the needle then set to work wrapping a harness around Pavel who was still belted to his seat, still howling in terror. Then he noticed Dimitri, now in a seat across from Pavel, about to attach himself to one of the escape cables. Quickly Bane reached for him, placed a staying hand against the young man’s shoulder.

            “No!” Bane cried over the wind, bringing Dimitri’s head up, faces mere inches apart. “They expect one of us in the wreckage, brother.”

            Dimitri’s surprise barely revealed itself in his worshipping eyes, his hair sharply whipped by the wind. Automatically he relinquished the cable, and a small, wondering smile touched his lips as he asked, almost intimately, “Have we started the fire?”

            Never turning from Dimitri’s probing stare, imparting courage into the young man through his own unwavering gaze, Bane nodded once, said proudly, dramatically, to illustrate his appreciation of the Chechen’s sacrifice, “Yes. The fire rises.”

            As Dimitri obediently settled back against his seat, still watching his commander with rapt interest and admiration, Bane took a knife from one of the tactical team and sliced through Pavel’s seatbelt. He dragged the screaming scientist to him. Attached to Pavel’s harness was a sturdy black cable that would haul them upward toward the C-130. Only one more thing left to do as the tactical team and Umarov were lifted out through the ragged hole in the tail.

            Bane glanced at the detonator one of his men had handed him, held it between himself and Pavel as he indulgently urged, “Calm down, Doctor. Now’s not the time for fear. That comes later.”

            And with that he pressed the detonator, and deafening, sharp explosions freed the cables from the fuselage, concussing them. The shell of the plane dropped away like a sheath, encouraging renewed outcries from Pavel, his face directly against Bane’s. Bane only stared silently at him now, knowing exhaustion and a new kind of terror would soon quiet the man. Hopefully Pavel would refrain from looking down, for Bane did not want the man pissing himself when they were clasped together.

            Patiently Bane waited as the cable slowly began to draw them through the air, ever closer to the C-130’s gaping cargo door. A feeling of complete satisfaction spread through Bane, keeping him warm in the frigid air. He thought nothing of his dangerous flight hundreds of feet above the earth’s surface, dangling like a spider with its prey on a single thread of web; he thought only of the success of the mission and of Talia’s reaction when he reported to her.


	40. Chapter 40

            Bane could tell by the subtle tone in Talia’s voice over the phone that she was still unhappy with him about Dominic LePage, but her appreciation and pride for his extraction of Dr. Pavel overrode that displeasure.

            “I knew you would succeed,” she said. “But I admit I didn’t expect it to go quite so flawlessly. It was ambitious, to say the least. I should have known better than to expect anything less than perfection from you.”

            Bane smiled to himself, relaxing back against the uncomfortable seat in the cavernous C-130. He looked forward to being reunited with his back brace…and Melisande’s blanket, which he wished to wrap himself in and sleep, for now that the mission had been accomplished, he felt fatigue at last demand its due; he had been dismissing it for several days now. Barsad would have his pack with the blanket inside at the rendezvous point. He looked forward to his lieutenant’s reaction to their successful operation. Barsad had probably gone through an entire pack of cigarettes already, worrying.

            “Our brothers,” Bane told Talia, “performed admirably. And Dimitri must be remembered as a martyred hero. His father will know of his courage.”

            “You chose your team wisely, of course.” She paused. “And what of the good doctor? Will he recover from the trauma?”

            “He must. He knows what is at stake if he does not.”

            “Excellent.” Another brief pause. “I have good news as well, Haris.”

            “Indeed?”

            “I believe we have found a way to manipulate a certain construction tycoon.”

            Glowering, Bane hoped Talia had used tactics other than her seductiveness to acquire John Daggett’s cooperation. Daggett was the archetype of Gotham’s wealthy scumbags. Men like Daggett came by such a classification because they were not only corrupt but greedy and power-seeking above all else. But the League needed such a one if their plan for the city was to move forward.

            “I hope,” Bane rumbled, “you have not sullied your hands too much in this quest, _habibati_.”

            “I do only what’s necessary, Haris,” she said with a slight rebuke in her tone. “And fortunately the skills to which you intimate were not required for this…acquisition. In fact, they would be counterproductive. It’s best if our friend knows I have no respect for him as either a person or a businessman. Less chance that he could ever suspect my involvement in your introduction and partnership with him.”

            “So how have you accomplished this alliance?”

            “Through our network of contacts, of course. Finn has orchestrated much of this behind the scenes. He’s confident that our tycoon will realize how invaluable you can be to him once you take care of his needs in West Africa.”

            “And what are those needs?”

            “It seems he has a desire to acquire mining operations there. And he was told of your experience and resources in that area.”

            Bane grunted thoughtfully.

            “But he’s a cautious little weasel and surprisingly wants to meet you in person. I admit the demand surprises me. I didn’t think he would want to get that close to the darkness of his demands. Most men like him are more than happy to leave such unpleasant meetings to underlings.”

            Bane nodded to himself in agreement and scowled at the thought of having to deal directly with a reptile like Daggett. “And where will this meeting take place?”

            “Gotham. No doubt he thinks he can merely snap his fingers from his downtown office and summon anyone in the world. And we will let him think that, of course. He will be allowed to believe you are merely a soldier for hire, another of his employees, nothing more. And if you impress him in Africa, which you surely will, we believe he will entice you to return to Gotham with your men and do his bidding there as well. There is nothing he desires more than to take over Wayne Enterprises, and you will convince him of that possibility.”

            “Has the meeting been arranged?”

            “Yes. A week from today. Finn will contact you with details of the location.”

            “Very well. I will be ready.”

            Talia hesitated. “Papa would be proud of you, Haris.” The softening of her voice pleased him, gave him hope. “You have accomplished what no government in the world could accomplish, and now they will all believe that what they sought is forever beyond anyone’s reach.” She paused. “ _I_ am proud of you as well. And grateful. The fire truly rises.”

            “And nothing will extinguish it,” he promised.

#

            Of course Barsad had insisted he accompany Bane into John Daggett’s Gotham penthouse, but Bane had refused his advice. Instead he ordered his lieutenant to his assigned post, which was atop an adjacent building, a vantage point that would provide clear sight for his beloved Barrett sniper rifle. In addition, Finn Donnell’s tactical team would be posted inside Daggett’s building, should Daggett have somehow deceived him and involved the Gotham police department or some other agency. Bane, however, was confident that Daggett—narcissistic, avaricious bastard that he was—had only one thing in mind, and that was acquiring the services of a notorious mercenary to do his bidding.

            It had not surprised Bane that Daggett wanted their meeting to take place in his penthouse. After all, the tycoon would feel safer there, surrounded by his personal security detail. Nor would he want to inconvenience himself by meeting in some unsavory, clandestine establishment where his expensive clothes might get dirty. And by meeting late at night there would be less chance that someone might see the terrifying criminal enter his building.

            Two large men from Daggett’s security detail escorted Bane from his vehicle to a discreet rear entrance that led directly to a private elevator. Bane had made no effort to hide his mask, and the two men—ex-military, by the looks of them—concealed any fear or revulsion. Undoubtedly they had been well briefed about who and what to expect. Yet through the veneer, Bane sensed trepidation from one of the two when they stepped into the tight confines of the elevator and the doors closed them in together.

            Bane remained silent on the long ride upward. He knew such muteness would draw curiosity as well as uneasiness, would make the men wonder how he could speak through the mask, what it sounded like. When he was younger, wearing an earlier version of the mask, he had hated the looks he received from those away from his mountain home, but in time he had learned to enjoy others’ nervousness around the mask. He fed upon those fears, continued to cultivate them, just as Rā’s al Ghūl had taught him.

            The elevator opened upon a foyer with pale marble floors and walls, windowless, illuminated by muted lights.

            “This way, sir,” one of his escorts said.

            Ascending marble stairs, Bane’s booted footfalls overpowered the sounds of the expensive, stylish shoes worn by the two other men. When they reached another room, one of the men halted in the doorway while the other continued with Bane. The room was longer than its width, a bar at the far end, made from the same cream-colored, brown-veined marble, a uniformed bartender behind it. When the employee saw Bane’s shocking visage, he halted in the middle of wiping a glass, slack-jawed. Bane cast him a cold glance.

            In an alcove to the left, Bane noted a piano, the sparkling nightlights of Gotham providing a backdrop through a window. The sight of the polished black instrument made Bane remember Passat and his violin back at the monastery when he had first been with the League. How he had loved to listen to Passat’s performances in the evenings in front of the large fireplace. The violin, of course, had been destroyed during Bruce Wayne’s escape, along with its owner.

            Bane was directed to a suite of tan leather furniture with chrome accents, set before a large, flat-screen television, one of two. A window behind it provided another view of the city…and the building where Barsad would be looking through the scope of his Barrett. Gleaming wood flooring and decorative side tables made of glass and brass added to the overall lack of warmth in the environment. Varied sculptures inhabited the room, the walls sparsely decorated. Definitely a male-dominated living space.

            Bane’s escort gestured to a chair. “Mr. Daggett will be with you shortly.” Then he withdrew from the room, though Bane knew he would not be far.

            Of course John Daggett would make him wait. A subtle show of authority and importance. For now Bane had to allow the man his delusions, his belief that he was superior to a lowly mercenary. The real truth would come in time, and by then it would be too late for Daggett to regret his arrogance and false sense of self-worth.

            Absently Bane glanced at the covers of magazines on a central coffee table. One unexpectedly captured his attention. His breath caught. Familiar, stunning blue eyes stared up at him. Slowly he reached for the periodical— _Gotham Business_ —and sank to the edge of one of the chairs, the leather protesting his weight, his broad form barely fitting between the arms.

            _Miranda Tate, Gotham’s most powerful businesswoman_ , the cover read. Talia posed with arms crossed, a confident, small smile teasing the corners of her red lips, her luxurious cascade of hair with its soft curls spilling about her shoulders. She wore a dark business suit with a skirt short enough to display plenty of leg and tight enough to accentuate her alluring curves, the neckline of her scarlet blouse falling just short of revealing too much for the magazine’s conservative readership. The sight of her, so transformed from the young woman who had challenged men in hand-to-hand combat in the monastery’s dojo, pained Bane. To know that thousands of others stared at this same picture, men with minds as depraved as those of the inmates in the pit prison who had ogled his mother and Melisande…it made him sick to his stomach, made him long for the simple days at the monastery when Talia had been safely secluded with him, her father, and their brothers, protected from a rapacious world.

            His concerns over the past days since Dominic LePage’s murder grew as he admired the photograph. Not only had Gotham slowly eroded his relationship with Talia, but he knew his decision to eliminate LePage had added to that demise. Yet perhaps, as Barsad insisted, he was mistaken.

            “Of course she’s gonna be pissed at you,” Barsad had said. “You had her boyfriend murdered, for fuck’s sake. Give her time, and she’ll come around. If you spent more time around other women, brother, you’d know all this. Instead I have to educate you. Add that to my job description. Should be gettin’ a God damn raise.”

            Bane stared at the magazine, the fingers of his right hand—the one with Talia’s wrist brace—moving restlessly, ruffling the pages but not opening them. A part of him wanted to read the article, the part of him that admired the work she had done, blending in so seamlessly with Gotham’s high society, gaining their trust; but the alpha male part of him, the protector, the lover refused. Whatever was written about her was not true. It was all Miranda Tate, not Talia. No one knew her, though magazines like this made people believe that they did. No, he was the only one who truly knew her, not people like Dominic LePage or Lucius Fox or John Daggett.

            So absorbed in his thoughts was he that he did not immediately hear Daggett’s arrival. His lapse startled and angered him; this was not the time for such fruitless emotional explorations.

            “Mr. Bane,” Daggett said, falsely bright in tone but cold of eye, blue eyes that lacked the liveliness of Talia’s sapphire gaze and raked cautiously over the mask. He drew near, one hand outstretched.

            As casually as he could, Bane dropped the magazine back to the table, standing. He did not reach for Daggett’s hand.

            “Bane is sufficient,” he rumbled.

            Daggett hesitated, displeasure erasing the fake smile from his angular, artificially-tanned face. He was clean-shaven, his dull brown hair perfectly coiffed. He wore a dark dinner jacket over a slate gray shirt but no tie. Tailored pants, pricy leather loafers. Too much cologne. Bane would have preferred even the stink of Barsad’s cigarettes over this repulsive odor.

            The tycoon’s sharp eyes touched upon _Gotham Business_ , and his shapeless mouth displayed a sardonic grin. “Admiring Miranda Tate, I see.” His gaze slipped to the cover, a lustful gleam that made Bane’s fingers twitch. “Hard not to. She’s a hot blend of sex appeal and wealth.” He quirked one eyebrow. “An attractive combination, wouldn’t you say?”

            Bane scowled. “I didn’t come here to discuss Gotham’s wealthy, Mr. Daggett.”

            “Of course.” The man’s glance at the mask easily conveyed his inner suspicions that women—beautiful or ugly—ran in terror from Bane. “Just as well if you aren’t attracted to Miranda Tate. She can be a first-class bitch.”

            Bane’s chest swelled with rage, and his fists clenched. Not since prison had anyone insulted Talia within his hearing.

            Daggett gestured to the bartender to bring him a drink. He turned back to Bane just as his guest managed to holster his murderous impulse. “Can I offer you something to…er…drink?”

            If Daggett feared him, he successfully hid such emotion. Power over others throughout his privileged life had no doubt given him a feeling of immunity, even when in the presence of someone as formidable in physical stature as well as reputation for violence as Bane.

            In answer to Daggett’s question, Bane simply shook his head once, never looking away from the tycoon, unblinking, trying to unclench his jaw.

            Daggett settled into a chair across the coffee table from Bane, his back to the darkened television and the window; to kill him, Barsad would have to shoot through the television. No difficult feat, of course, and oh how Bane wished he could give the order.

            When the bartender brought a tumbler of Scotch, Daggett commanded, “That’ll be all for tonight.” He sipped his drink and waited until his employee left the room before turning back to Bane. “Now then, let’s get down to business, shall we?” He took another sip. “Your reputation is well-known around the world. They say you are the best in your field of…expertise.”

            “I am not concerned with others’ opinions.”

            “Well, I am, at least in this situation. I have been disappointed by other…contractors that I’ve hired.” His eyes grew even colder, the blue fading to gray in the room’s subdued light. “And I don’t take kindly to disappointment, I assure you. Those men who failed me would tell you that…if they could.”

            “I am not a man who takes kindly to threats, Mr. Daggett.”

            Daggett’s expression opened in mock innocence. “I would never dream of threatening you.”

            Bane kept the scowl from his eyes. “What is it you want done?”

            The tycoon set his glass on the table, avoiding a coaster and putting it directly upon the image of Talia’s face. “I understand you have experience in West Africa’s mining industry.”

            Bane said nothing.

            “There is a particular mine in Mali that I want to acquire. Unfortunately the owners have not been willing to accept any of my offers. And as I said, I’m not a man who takes kindly to disappointments.”

            “So my objective would be to acquire this mine?”

            “Yes, without implicating me, of course. My money may be behind the operation, but my involvement will be nearly untraceable, before or after you succeed, as I’m sure you will.”

            “ _If_ I accept the job.”

            “I think you will find that I can afford your fees.”

            “You haven’t heard them yet.”

            Daggett smirked. “If you accept and succeed, there will be more work for you. I highly doubt anyone else can outbid me for your services, if you indeed prove valuable to me in this West African endeavor. And, after all, you _are_ in this business for the money, aren’t you? I know few private contractors in your line of work who toil for anything other than that. So in some ways we are very much alike, aren’t we?”

            Bane growled, “I assure you, Mr. Daggett, we are nothing alike.”

            The tycoon eyed him coolly, took up his drink once again, leaving behind a faint ring of moisture on the magazine cover. Daggett was wise enough not to argue Bane’s point.

            “I believe you _are_ interested in working for me,” Daggett said smugly. “Otherwise a man of your reputation and caution wouldn’t have come here in person.”

            “I had other business in the city.”

            Daggett made a skeptical but indulgent face. “Very well. Then since we are both busy men, shall we get down to the particulars of the operation?”

            “Not until we agree upon terms. And I am not a man of negotiations, Mr. Daggett. But having said that, I can guarantee that your money will be well spent, just as I guarantee your complete satisfaction with the outcome of the operation. My men are nothing short of the best in what they do.”

            “I have no doubt.” Daggett’s attention again returned to the mask. “After all, I wouldn’t be talking to you right now if I believed otherwise.”

            Bane’s gaze momentarily touching upon the amber liquid in Daggett’s glass as he imagined Barsad’s bullet shattering it in the man’s grasp after passing through Daggett’s body. To counter his moment of weakness, his glance dropped to Talia’s picture, to remind himself why he was here and the importance of securing Daggett’s partnership.

            With this in mind, he forced a small smile. “Then we understand each other, Mr. Daggett. Now there is but to agree upon my price.”


	41. Chapter 41

            Bane had not dreamt of Melisande for some time, but now when her image came to him, she seemed so very real. He could even smell her—that wonderful clean scent of jasmine that had lingered about her the day she had arrived in prison, a smell that the pit had quickly devoured. She sat on the edge of his bed, the charpoy in his cell. But the prison was different—there was natural warmth where none had ever existed, there was sunlight, though not direct, and there was peaceful silence, as if her very presence had conjured these changes.

            Melisande was dressed in the rich, dark clothing she had worn into the prison, as clean and fresh as on that first day, but her head was bare, her long hair shimmering. She smiled mildly at him, with sympathy in her gentle, pale brown eyes, and asked, “Why are you troubled, Bane?”

            The question surprised him, as did her presence, but he was thankful for both, though to see her also made his heart ache. “I’m losing her, Melisande.”

            “You could never lose her, Bane. You are a part of her, as she is a part of you. Nothing can change that.”

            He frowned. “But something has. And I am partly to blame.”

            “You did what you had to do. You were protecting her, just as you promised me you would.”

            “Perhaps I made a mistake.”

            Indulgent, she cocked her head.

            “I hurt her,” he continued. “I’ve never hurt her before. I believe it’s made her feel betrayed.”

            Melisande rested her hand upon his knee where he lay, naked and warm, beneath her treasured blanket. “She hurt you as well. But neither of you meant to do so. You mustn’t worry.”

            “I wish she had never gone to Gotham.”

            “I know, but you both have a mission to fulfill, and such work often demands sacrifices. You are both under tremendous pressure to finish her father’s work.”

            He stared at the smoothness of her brown hand, longed to touch it, but for some reason he could not impel his fingers to reach for her. “Sometimes I wish we were not tasked with this. I wish we were back in the mountains. Sometimes I even wish the three of us were together again in this place. Strangely enough, some of my happiest days were here.”

            Melisande’s smile took on a sad quality. “You will be happy again, Bane. You’ll be together again with Talia, and what has happened between you recently will be forgotten.”

            How he wanted to believe her.

            Barsad’s voice came to Bane from afar, an urgency in his tone. Had his lieutenant followed him into the pit? Or had he been nearby this whole time, waiting for him? Barsad often had terrible timing. Did he not know Melisande was here with him? Why could his friend not give him a little more time? Always demanding something, keeping him focused on their work.

            “I must go,” Melisande murmured.

            “No. Please stay.”

            “You know I can’t.” Then she leaned toward him, and he realized the mask was gone; he was whole, as he had been the last time he had seen Melisande alive. She kissed him, long and deep, as he used to fantasize about when they had been together. When he opened his eyes, she was gone, and he was instead looking up from his hotel bed at Barsad’s unshaven face hovering over him.

            “Talia’s here,” Barsad was saying. He glanced at Bane’s erection. “But it looks like you already knew that.” He grinned.

            Bane growled at him, growled also at the mask, the tightness of the apparatus underscoring its presence after the dream’s wonderful freedom. “Why did you let me sleep so late?” Bane glanced toward the window as he extricated himself from the blankets tangled about his feet.

            “Because you needed it. I told Talia you were in bed, and she said to let you sleep longer, but I told her you would be crabby enough sleeping this long.” Barsad drew the curtains away from the window, allowing late morning light to brighten the bedroom. But the sun was not shining upon the Nigerian city of Lagos. By the look of the gray clouds, yesterday’s rain would soon be returning.

            Bane hastily showered, his thoughts on Talia. She had notified him two days ago that she would be meeting him here, after she had received word of his successful coup for John Daggett’s benefit.

            “There’s something I need to discuss with you,” she had said. “And it’s something I must tell you face to face.”

            When Bane entered the suite’s living room, he found Talia alone, seated on a couch, wearing a plain white blouse and jeans, no hint of the wealthy Gotham businesswoman, not even a necklace, only simple earrings on her tempting lobes. He could not help but smile, his heart swelling with emotion as it always did when he saw her in person.

            “Where’s Barsad?” he asked.

            “He went to the pool. I told him I wanted to speak privately with you.”

            Bane half expected her to stand to greet him as she usually did, with a kiss upon the mask and a light touch upon his arm, but he was disappointed, though certainly not surprised. Her pain over Dominic LePage’s death and his part in it still veiled her eyes. He knew her distance, both physical and emotional, was calculated as further punishment for his incursion.

            As Bane settled in a chair across from her, Talia said, “Barsad was telling me how well the operation went in Mali. I’m sure Daggett was duly impressed.”

            “He seemed to be when I spoke with him afterwards.”

            “And did he offer you work in Gotham? His plan to take over Wayne Enterprises?”

            “Of course. Just as you predicted, _habibati_.”

            “Very good. Then we can move forward with the League’s plan.” She paused briefly then added, “Which is why I am here.”

            Bane’s fingers twitched in agitation. For her to fly all this way simply to discuss League matters was unprecedented. He sensed something truly troubling, something beyond her displeasure with him over LePage. But he kept his concerns hidden and waited for her to finish sipping her tea.

            When Talia set her empty cup on the coffee table between them, she kept her gaze from him for a moment longer. She pressed her hands together and slipped them between her thighs, as if she were cold. Bane wanted to go to her, to sit close, to put his arm around her for warmth and comfort.

            “We have discussed our plans for Gotham at length,” Talia continued. “But there is one thing I must alter. I’ve given it a lot of thought, and I’m going to ask you not to try to change my mind.”

            Bane frowned. “Then obviously this is something you know I will object to.”

            “Perhaps I’m wrong. Perhaps you will understand and agree with me.”

            “What is it, _habibati_?”

            Her shoulders had rounded, as if weighted by some heavy burden. Her gaze remained lowered to her hands, her long lashes like hovering feathers, trying to hide emotions. “Papa was the League’s greatest leader and its greatest martyr. But of course to me he is that and so much more. I can never hope to live up to his greatness, but I can honor him in the same way he sacrificed himself for the League’s beliefs. And it’s only fitting, considering how badly I disappointed and wounded him. I owe him—and his life’s work—nothing short of my own life.”

            Bane stared at her, willed her to look at him, but her attention remained diverted. His heart began to beat faster, painfully so.

            “To ask one of our brothers to do something that I would not do myself,” Talia continued quietly, “shows a complete lack of leadership and courage on my part. I think Papa would agree with me. It should be my finger that pushes the detonator to destroy Gotham, to do what my father would do if he were still here. He would not shirk from such a thing.”

            “You are not shirking. You are valuable to the League, to your father’s legacy. By delegating this task, you would remain alive to continue your father’s work. Our brothers would understand. There is more to be done beyond Gotham. The world’s corruption must have a staying hand.”

            “That is for your hand to control.” Talia raised her eyes to him at last. “You will lead our brothers after I am gone, as you always should have. No one deserves the mantle more than you. You have sacrificed your whole life for me, for my father, for the League.”

            The unthinkable concept of losing her propelled Bane from his chair, uncaring now if she tried to physically reject him or not. His entire life had been devoted to her, to protect her and keep her from death, so the concept of failure at her own hands caused his head to reel and his very soul to reject it. He sat close to her, took her cold hands. “You are the League’s rightful leader, Talia. How many times must I tell you this? And you must remain as its leader. You are talking foolishness because you are grieving the death of your…friend.” He swallowed hard. “You are stressed. We’ve planned for Gotham’s destruction for so many years, and now that the pieces are falling into place, the stakes are rising ever higher. It’s normal for you to feel overwhelmed.”

            “I’m not overwhelmed. I’m seeing things very clearly. I can’t ask anyone else to deliver the final blow. It is my duty, both to the League and to my father.”

            “Your father would disagree.”

            “I don’t believe he would. Trust me, I have thought long and hard about this, Bane. I think he would be proud of my decision. And I think…when it’s done…I will have earned his forgiveness.”

            Anger swelled in Bane, and he took hold of Talia’s shoulders, turned her toward him, startling her. “You have earned his forgiveness and more, Talia. There is no need for you to martyr yourself. It’s _not_ what he would want. And it’s not what your grandmother would want either. She would never understand.”

            “She won’t know. She will only know that I died in the blast along with our brothers.”

            “And that will make it easier on her?” Bane growled. “It will destroy her. She will have lost everyone she loves.”

            “Not everyone; she will still have you.”

            “No. If you insist on this path, then my place will be beside you.”

            “No, Bane—”

            “It is not negotiable. My place has always been beside you, protecting you, as I promised your mother and your grandmother.”

            “No, your place is with our brothers, leading them after I’m gone.”

            “Any of our regional commanders would be worthy replacements.”

            “But none as worthy as you. No, Bane. You will come to Gotham and oversee the operation, but when the final blow must be dealt, you will leave the city. Those are my orders.”

            “I will not leave you. Why would you even think I could?”

            “Because it is necessary.”

            Bane paused in order to control his umbrage. “The League…they are my brothers, my family. But you, _habibati_ , you are my life. So when your life ends, mine will as well. I don’t want it any other way.”

            His words disarmed her anger, softened her mouth and erased the lines from her forehead. She loosened his hold on her arms and took his hands into her lap. “Don’t make me responsible for your death, Bane.”

            “You wouldn’t be responsible. This is my own decision, not yours. If I cannot change your mind, then you know you cannot change mine.”

            His own expression tempered, and he gently rubbed her soft skin, her elegant fingers. He remembered kissing them without the mask, longed to do so again, assumed he never would, especially now.

            Talia’s lips twisted ruefully. “Barsad will hate me if you follow me down this path.”

            “Barsad will understand. He is first and foremost a soldier.”

            “Perhaps he should lead our brothers after we are gone.”

            Bane shook his head. “He would refuse the promotion, and even if he didn’t, such a post should go to one who has been with the League longer. He would say the same.”

            She frowned, nodded. “You’re right, of course. He won’t leave you any more than you will leave me. But I wish you would, if not for your own sake then for _Jiddah’s_.”

            “Your grandmother endured tragedy long before she ever knew us. She will continue to endure after we are gone, if her heart does not give out when she hears of losing you, that is.”

            Tears tried to creep into Talia’s eyes. “She has always deserved a much better life than she’s led. I wish she would have come to Gotham with me.”

            “If she had and she learned of your ultimate plan, she would have insisted on staying there to die with you, no doubt. So for that it is good that she has always refused your offer.”

            “I suppose. I just wish I could have spent more time with her.”

            “You still can. You should go to her now. I will be on my way to Gotham today to take over from Finn. It will not harm the mission if you spend a few days with your grandmother.”

            “I don’t see how I can. She would know I’m hiding something from her, and she wouldn’t rest until I told her.”

            “Perhaps you should.”

            “I can’t. She won’t understand, Bane. And I couldn’t bear to see the pain I would cause her. I can endure many things, but that…” She shook her head.

            Bane touched her cheek. “There is only one woman who is stronger than you, _habibati_ , and that is your grandmother. She may understand better than you think. After all, she knew your father and mother. And she may very well appreciate your bravery and resolve to tell her, so she hears of it from your own lips instead of in some detached way.”

            Talia frowned. “I just don’t know, Bane.”

            “Think about it. Sleep on it. You are staying at least one night, aren’t you?”

            “Just tonight.”

            “I wish I could stay with you, but I must get to Gotham. Daggett wants to meet with me tomorrow.”

            He wished she would try to dissuade him, to ask him to stay here with her, but she did not. Perhaps since making her suicide pact she had already begun to emotionally detach herself from anything she cared about…if she indeed still did care for him.

            Talia took in a long, cleansing breath as Bane’s hand fell away from her face. “It won’t be long now. Bruce Wayne will feel the fire. All of Gotham, all the world will. And Papa’s destiny, my destiny, will be fulfilled. We’ve waited so long, so patiently.” She offered a tremulous smile. “And we both have you to thank for it.”

            “It is you who has spent so much time and effort in Gotham. None of this would be possible without you.”

            Talia offered a small, sad smile, briefly touched his mask, then stood. Restless, she moved toward the wet bar and poured herself a shot of whiskey. She carried it to a nearby window and stared out upon the sprawling city. With a flick of her wrist, she downed the drink, licked her lips. Bane stood, watching her from near the couch.

            “Do you think he will come out of the shadows?” Talia asked, still looking beyond the window. “Bruce Wayne?”

            “Yes. Our activities will flush him out, one way or the other; he will not be able to help himself. He will be weak after all these years, yet he will still try to stop us. He’s been foolish enough to believe that Gotham has been preserved and rehabilitated since the Joker’s demise. We will show him how wrong he is.”


	42. Chapter 42

            The teapot had been a gift from Maysam several years ago. Elegant in its old world design, made of vintage stainless steel. It was one of the few things besides Melisande’s blanket that Bane carried from base to base with him. From it, he poured the fresh brew into a battered tin cup, wrapped his hands around it to warm them. Although a fire crackled in the open brazier behind him, the subterranean environment was cold. Too much flowing water nearby, too much concrete here in the depths below Gotham, a forgotten world, just as the pit prison had been.

            Barsad referred to their headquarters as Bane’s lair, a name that amused and pleased Bane, for it conjured up the image of a fearsome creature, like a lion or a cobra, awaiting its prey. To him, it was fitting that he should direct Gotham’s destruction from this place, not simply because of the concealment it offered but because of how it reminded him in so many ways of his origin, his home. The world had once forsaken him, marginalized him, condemned him even though he was an innocent child, and now the world would soon see what its cruelty had bred, what its indifference had nurtured. And though it had cared not even what his name was, after this was over they would never forget it.

            He smiled grimly when he thought of his father one day soon seeing the power his son wielded. Perhaps Edmund Dorrance would realize that his rejection of his son had ultimately led to the deaths of millions of people. Hopefully guilt would eat the man alive.

            Bane blew gently on the tea. With his mask off, the pain that hovered just beyond the reach of the injected morphine reminded him not to wait too long for the beverage to cool in order to drink it.

            He was alone, a pleasure that would not last now that the sun was up somewhere above his stone cave. Soon his men would begin to come for orders or to report on operations, a steady flow throughout the day, as it had been every day since he had arrived in Gotham not long ago. With his physical presence here and with Daggett’s wealth and resources now available, there was much to be done to prepare the city for its death. But for right now all he had to concern himself with was enjoying his tea and listening to the water just beyond his headquarters.

            Shirtless, he sat on the edge of his thin, narrow cot, sipped the tea through his scarred and deformed lips, and gazed at the water that provided a flowing wall of camouflage for his living space. This twenty-five foot waterfall from Gotham’s massive underground network spilled past him to an old aqueduct built at the base of a cavernous atrium of concrete and steel supports. The waterfall mesmerized him, especially when he thought of the pitiful, stagnant source of water in the pit prison. Inmates like Doctor. Assad would marvel at this sight and partake of it like life-giving manna. Even all these years later, Bane still remembered his first taste of clean water after Rā’s al Ghūl had rescued him.

            His gaze dropped to the cot. He smiled and caressed Melisande’s blanket spread there, thought of his recent dreams of her. Since coming to this underground sanctuary, he had dreamt of her nearly every night, surely because of the memories of the pit that this environment conjured. Though he was not a religious man in any form, he liked to believe that once he was dead he would be reunited with her. And if so, that meant it would not be long before their reunion.

            He wondered if he would also see Rā’s al Ghūl. The thought of that potential spiritual reunion, however, left him unsettled, for his feelings toward the man were still a contrast of love and great disappointment. Although he told Talia that he was bent upon this mission to avenge Rā’s and fulfill her father’s destiny, he kept his other emotions about the man to himself, only voicing them rarely to Barsad.

            After finishing his tea, he replenished the mask’s crystals and donned it once again. Then he lumbered out upon the steel catwalk that stretched away from his headquarters, over the aqueduct and across the width of the atrium. He did not go far, however, and stopped to lean on the railing and peer down into the rushing water. The waterfall behind him and the speeding water below deafened him to the rest of the world and dampened his skin. Another catwalk crisscrossed above him, and upon a level higher than that structure a handful of guards manned the mezzanine that ran the circumference of the atrium. They were there twenty-four seven, of course, to protect him along with the intel and supplies maintained here. He chuckled wryly at the thought of needing protection. There was no one in Gotham who could challenge him with any success. Soon they would all know that—the police, the government, the Batman.

            Talia, of course, would never see this place. She and Bane would have no direct form of communication now that they were both in Gotham, in order to preserve her cover and avoid anyone connecting them. All information shared between them would travel exclusively through Barsad or Finn Donnell. Bane was glad that she could not come here, for he did not want the place to remind her of the pit and in particular her mother’s murder.

            The tread of another man sent a slight reverberation through the metal grating of the catwalk. He knew without turning that it was Barsad. His lieutenant did not sleep far from him and would sleep even closer if Bane allowed it, but since coming here Bane found that he preferred to be alone in the immediate space where he slept and worked. Armed guards may surround him, but there in the small, damp space behind the waterfall he found rare privacy amidst the bustle of his growing army.

            Bane did not turn to watch Barsad’s approach, but he could tell by the strength and quick rhythm of his lieutenant’s strides that he was perturbed about something. Patiently sighing, Bane awaited the onslaught.

            As Barsad drew next to him, Bane hoped to delay his words with a distraction, “You should have your tea before it gets cold. It doesn’t take long down here.”

            Barsad’s hands gripped the dark yellow railing so strongly that his knuckles whitened. “Guess who just called me.” Tight anger in his voice as he stared to where the aqueduct flowed beyond sight through an opening in the atrium’s far wall.

            Bane waited, making his assumption silently.

            Barsad turned to him, his anger palpable. “Maysam. And by the time she was done talking, she was in tears. You wanna know how much pain that woman has to be in before she ever cries? God damn it, Bane, were you going to tell me?”

            “Of course.”

            “When? As your second-in-command and your personal bodyguard, I would expect my commander to tell me right away about a fucking suicide pact.”

            Bane paused, breathed deeply, gathered himself then faced his friend. Of course he easily saw through Barsad’s anger to his real motivation, something he had anticipated but knew he could not alleviate. Considering the death of Barsad’s biological brother, Bane regretted the impact this news had on him, but there was no help for it.

            “I am sorry if I have insulted you, brother. As I said, I had planned to inform you, but I found no reason to do so this early. I need us both to be focused on the present, not my future.”

            “Your future? It’s my future, too, dammit. And Maysam’s. I can’t believe Talia would tell her such a thing.”

            “I encouraged her to do so.”

            Barsad stared. “Why the hell would you do that?”

            “Maysam, like you, deserves to hear the truth from her family, not through the news media afterwards. She deserves to know Talia willfully forfeited her life for what she and her father believed in, that it wasn’t Gotham that killed her grandchild but Talia’s own brave decision.”

            “Brave? Crazy and unnecessary is more like it. And you volunteering to join her. The League loses both of you at the same time. You don’t think that could have catastrophic effects?”

            “No. Our regional commanders will be made aware ahead of time as well. A successor will be chosen before we are gone.”

            “Well, it sure as hell won’t be me. I don’t want it.”

            “I am aware of your feelings on the matter, just as you are well aware of why I have chosen to stay with Talia. Surely this information does not come as a complete shock to you, brother. Your pain and anger is because of Maysam, and rightly so. When Talia first told me of her plans, I tried to talk her out of it, if for no one else’s sake than for Maysam’s. She would not listen. I had hoped by sending her to her grandmother that she would reconsider her plan, that Maysam might be able to dissuade her.” He sighed again. “But you and I both know Talia’s strength of mind.”

            “Mulish stubbornness is more like it,” Barsad grumbled. His gaze drifted down to the churning water. “I should be the one with the detonator, not either of you.”

            “This is not simply an issue of delegation. You understand the reasons behind Talia’s actions. And mine.”

            “Just because I understand them doesn’t mean I have to agree with them. Or that I won’t argue against it, now and all the way up to that moment.”

            “I expected nothing less from you, brother.” He smiled behind the mask, maintaining the expression until Barsad saw it in his eyes.

            “Well, then you should know I’m not going to abandon my post.”

            Bane’s smile died away. “Your death is not required.”

            “I beg to differ. It’s my duty to protect you. And though you won’t let me protect you from yourself, I _will_ protect you from anyone else who plans to murder you before you kill yourself.” His mouth twitched in a wry smile. “How fucked up is that?”

            Bane’s immediate impulse was to argue with Barsad, but he knew he would get no further with his lieutenant than he had with Talia. He did, however, feel compelled to try one thing: “You should think of Maysam. After we are done here, you could return to her. You could be her consolation. You could serve her from now on. It would be a service to the League, to protect the only surviving member of our leader’s family. A rightful tribute.”

            A muscle twitched in Barsad’s jaw as he turned again to study the water. “My duty is first to you.”

            Bane’s low chuckle jerked his lieutenant’s attention back to him. “I recall a day when the shoe was on the other foot, Barsad. The day I first met you, sitting on that veranda with Maysam. She convinced you to take me with you to Kashmir.”

            Barsad could no longer deny his own good nature, and thus his blue gaze softened. “So you’re saying all of this is my fault? If I hadn’t taken you on, you would have gone floundering off on your own, probably got yourself killed way back then?”

            “Perhaps.”

            “Yeah? Hmm.” Barsad nodded. “Well, I didn’t wanna do it, you know. Figured you’d be more trouble than you were worth.” He turned back toward the command post with half of a smile. “Guess I was right.” Tossing a glance over his shoulder at Bane, he said, “Better have that tea before it’s cold, huh?”

#

            In the ensuing weeks, Bane quietly built his fighting force. Men were recruited from across the globe as well as assets from within Gotham. The latter left Bane unsettled, for he did not trust anything that belonged to the city, yet he had to tolerate these recruits if he wanted a force of the desired size when the day came to liberate Gotham. The hierarchy of his organization, however, was populated only with the League’s men, a command structure that provided leadership on every level.

            There was one assignment, however, for which he needed a specialist, someone with a specific skill set that the mercenaries and Daggett’s thugs and Gotham’s street kids lacked. He preferred not to utilize any of the League’s men for the role, for he did not want the police to trace the activity to anyone but the single operative, someone with a criminal history that would make law enforcement believe the thief to be working alone. And though Bane had not yet found that asset, he was confident that the solution to his problem would present itself soon enough.

            As usual, he was correct.

            One night Barsad awoke him from a sound sleep, slumped over his desk, Melisande’s blanket draped about his shoulders, his desk light still shining upon the maps spread before him. The fire in the brazier behind him had faded to glowing embers, its quiet hissing sizzle all but drowned out by the voice of the waterfall.

            Holding a cell phone, Barsad said, “It’s Yemi. He caught someone trying to rob Talia’s penthouse. Says it’s someone you might be interested in.”

            Bane rubbed his eyes clear then took the phone. “What do you have, Yemi?”

            “Jewel thief. A rather notorious one. Quite the rap sheet.”

            “We do not need a jewel thief, brother.” He glanced up at Barsad with irritation.

            “For stealing jewels, no,” Yemi said. “But if what I’ve learned of her is true, I’m sure you could persuade her to steal something else we do need.”

            “‘Her?’” Bane considered this with a grunt.

            “Yes, a woman. Selina Kyle. Known more commonly as Catwoman, believe it or not.”

            Bane had no interest in a street name, and the fact that she was a woman made him skeptical. “Hold her, and send me the intel on her. I’ll get back to you by morning.”

            The information he received on Selina Kyle was indeed impressive. She stole nothing but high-end items, and to do so required high-end owners of such items. And those people had more than run-of-the-mill security measures in place. Yet this so-called Catwoman had managed to master everything in her way…until she had entered Talia’s penthouse, a reality that made Bane smile with satisfaction. It would appear, however, that law enforcement was determined to capture her, especially since she had brought her work to Gotham. In the past when other agencies had arrested her, she had always managed to escape. Looking at her young, oval face with its full lips, large brown eyes, and raven hair, Bane could guess how she had easily beguiled her captors. But lately she had had some close calls, very unlike her. This small detail, this weakness, revealed something about the woman to Bane: she was tiring of her current life.

            Bane had Selina brought to him later that day, after he had a brief discussion with John Daggett. He met her in another part of the underground network of tunnels, far away from his headquarters and the work his men were doing. Barsad accompanied him, and when they saw Selina, Barsad raised his eyebrows at Bane, half amused, half lustful. Indeed the young woman was an appealing sight where she sat on the floor of the tunnel, hands and feet bound, guarded by an armed mercenary on either side. She wore a skin-tight black bodysuit made of an unknown material that drew Bane’s interest. Did it offer more than merely concealment during her night forays? Well, the suit’s stealth qualities certainly were not what would interest most men, he knew, and Barsad’s glistening stare proved it. The bodysuit accentuated every curve of her lean, cat-like body, including a waist nearly as small as Talia’s. She wore a black mask over the upper portion of her face, and her small, custom night vision goggles had been flipped up atop her head, giving her the illusion of having feline ears. So the moniker of Catwoman had not stemmed simply from the fact that she was a cat-burglar. With that sleek body and those displaced goggles, she certainly had the appearance of a large cat, a black panther. And Bane had a feeling she moved with the same graceful quality as that deadly animal.

            When Selina’s eyes raised to his mask, she was unable to hide her shock, even behind her own mask. She moved slightly, as if instinctively trying to get away from his advance.

            “Well, Ms. Kyle,” Bane rumbled, “it seems you are in a bit of a pickle.”

            “Who are you?” She could not completely hide the fear in her question.

            “Who I am is unimportant. _What_ I am should be your concern.”

            “So we’re going to play games?” Selina sniped. “This is what you dragged me down into this rat hole for?”

            “I assure you there is nothing frivolous about anything I do, Ms. Kyle. And it will serve you well to remember that.”

            “What do you want?”

            “More to the point, Ms. Kyle, what do you want?” Bane crouched before her, hands clasped.

            She flicked her head defiantly, enough to send a ripple through her straight hair in the shine of Barsad’s lantern. “Another game, is it? Why don’t you just get to the point?” Her attention dropped from his mask to the military vest he now wore at all times, an old, trusted combination of Kevlar and bulletproof plates both front and back. He was shirtless, his powerful arms drawing her cautious perusal next.

            Bane removed her goggles and examined them. He could feel indignation pour off Selina. This woman was a warrior, not merely a thief; it was easy enough for him to sense this. The League needed warriors, especially now.

            “We are well aware of your skills, Ms. Kyle. And we have need of them.”

            “Who says you can afford me? Or that I’ll even work for you?”

            “Price is not an issue, and I believe I have just the type of payment you are looking for. As for your second question, we are not offering you a choice. You either work for us or you never walk out of these tunnels again.” He looked up from the goggles. “And what would your pretty, young protégé say about that? Who would take care of her? What is her name? Jen?” He smiled coldly.

            Shock loosened Selina’s set jaw and caused her to blink several times, though she quickly recovered her composure. “The girl means nothing to me. She’s a meal ticket.”

            Bane chuckled hollowly through the mask. “Don’t take us for fools, Ms. Kyle. There is nothing about you and your friend that we do not know. Trying to conceal the facts from us will only serve to displease us. And considering your current situation, if I were you I would try to be more compliant.”

            “Fuck you.”

            Bane set the goggles next to her and got back to his feet, his back having begun to protest his hunched position. “Do not be so brash, Ms. Kyle. As I said, we know all about Jen, including where she is at this precise moment, which is right in my men’s crosshairs. No doubt she is worried why you haven’t returned from last night’s escapade.”

            “Leave the kid out of this.”

            “That is entirely up to you. I understand her mother is dead and her father is locked up in a facility upstate. Without you protecting her, I shudder to think what would happen to her alone on the streets of Gotham.” He crossed his arms in front of his chest, enjoying the anger seething in Selina now. “She reminds you of yourself at that age, does she not? A child of the streets, a runaway, unwanted, forced into a life of crime to survive. No doubt she would love to be united with her father. Not an impossibility, you know.”

            Selina tried to hide her interest behind a cynical laugh. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

            Bane tilted his head with an indulgent, patient look, as if she were a difficult child. “With our help, not only could your friend start a new life with her father but you could start a new life as well. An honest life, one where no one knows what Selina Kyle has done all these years.”

            She scowled. “Impossible.”

            “There are few things impossible to those with enough resources, enough money, Ms. Kyle. You should know this.”

            She simmered, staring at him.

            “There is a certain piece of technology called the Clean Slate. A program with the ability to erase one’s past, all of it, wiped clean from every database on earth.”

            The cynical laugh came again, echoing in the dank tunnel. “Bullshit.”

            “I assure you it is very real and very effective. I have an associate who has this program in his possession. And I can convince him to turn its technology over to you, should you prove valuable to us.”

            “Why would I trust you to deliver this? How do I know it even exists?”

            “You really have no choice but to believe me, Ms. Kyle, do you?”

            He remained uncomfortably close to her, towering over her. Then with lightning speed he grabbed her by the neck and lift her off the ground, too high for her stilettos and their serrated-blade heels to reach the tunnel floor. With bulging eyes, she gasped and choked, twisting every way she could within her bindings, not fearfully, no panic, just channeled aggression and determination.

            “Will you join us?” Bane calmly asked, as if nothing had changed. His other hand braced against her hip to keep her from swinging her lower body against him in an effort to unbalance him. “I can end this quickly for you, Ms. Kyle. I’ve but to squeeze just a bit…tighter.”

            Color began to drain from Selina’s face, causing her ruby red lipstick to appear even brighter, like an apple upon freshly fallen snow. Her struggle weakened, and for a moment Bane thought she wanted to die, but then her strong will flared again, and she managed to gasp out, “Fine.”

            Bane dropped her. She grunted with the impact against the cement, cursed him. He glanced at his men, gestured almost indifferently at the woman. “These gentlemen will escort you back to your flat, my dear. And, rest assured, you will be watched closely. Banish any thought of fleeing Gotham from your mind. There is nowhere you can hide from us. And if you give me occasion for it, I will not be so benevolent as to simply crush your throat, as I threatened just now.” He turned away, stepped easily across the sluggishly moving sewage canal in the center of the tunnel. Then he glanced back at Selina. “We will be in touch, Ms. Kyle.”


	43. Chapter 43

            Bane walked through the tunnels in near darkness. Widely-spaced, dim lights provided occasional illumination. They reminded him of the corridors in the pit prison, away from the shaft, where guttering wicks in ancient wall fixtures gave off an eerie, weak glow, making the shadows of passing inmates dance along the cell bars. Though he did not know Gotham’s tunnels as intimately as he had known the prison’s passageways, he knew them well enough after these several weeks to move with no concern of getting lost in the labyrinth and with no need of a flashlight or lantern.

            “When Talia and I were in prison,” Bane said to Barsad who walked just behind him, rifle in hand, always vigilant, “she often begged me to take her back into the corridors where the majority of the prisoners dwelled.”

            “But you didn’t?”

            “No. There were some things I could not protect her from, like the very environment in which we lived; however, I could protect her from seeing the unsavory things that went on away from the stepwell.”

            “Yeah, I can imagine,” Barsad muttered. “But knowing Talia, I’m sure you had a fight on your hands to keep her from doing what she wanted, eh?”

            “Of course.” Bane smiled at the memory of Talia’s attempts to scurry away from him whenever he was washing at the pool or talking to another inmate. “But once she became aware of her true gender, her fear of suffering the same fate as her mother helped keep her in check.”

            Talia had been on his mind all day, for tonight—at this very moment, in fact—she was attending a fundraiser at Wayne Manor to commemorate Harvey Dent Day. The celebrated district attorney had died eight years ago this night. Selina Kyle was at the same event, undercover as a maid, in place to acquire a set of Bruce Wayne’s fingerprints from one of his safes, if things went according to plan.

            Bane imagined Talia dressed in elegant finery, her hair and make-up as flawless as ever. She would turn every man’s eye. Would one of those men be Bruce Wayne himself? Talia had plans to seek out the billionaire, to talk to him about reviving his clean energy program, the program that the League had clandestinely invested heavily in, allowing Wayne to develop the fusion reactor that the League planned to acquire and which Doctor Pavel would then convert into a neutron bomb. Bruce Wayne had grown paranoid after the initial publication of Doctor Pavel’s paper on the subject of fusion reaction and had subsequently shut down the program, claiming failure in the reactor’s early testing. Even after the world believed Pavel had died in that plane crash months ago, Wayne still refused to resurrect the program. Talia had been trying for some time now to meet with Wayne personally, but he remained a recluse. The man must indeed be wounded physically and emotionally to be able to repeatedly deny the alluring Miranda Tate.

            “Maybe,” Barsad’s voice interrupted Bane’s thoughts, “after Talia’s event tonight, you should talk to her yourself about her findings.”

            “No,” Bane growled, “we will stick to protocol.”

            While he appreciated Barsad’s attempt to provide an excuse for him to talk with the woman he loved, he knew he had to stand firm on this directive. Eventually the time would come when he would see Talia again, but that time, alas, was not now.

            Barsad’s walkie talkie crackled briefly before Pasha Umarov’s voice broke through: “Base to Barsad. Do you read me? Over.”

            “I read you. Go ahead.”

            “Those two kids he asked for are here.”

            Bane halted and turned to Barsad, fingers twitching.

            Barsad had a question in his eyes as he answered, “I’ll let him know. Out.”

            Resolutely Bane began to retrace their steps, headed back to their HQ.

            “What do you plan to do with them?” Barsad asked.

            “I will teach them a lesson in loyalty, one neither they nor their young friends will forget.”

#

            The two boys jumped to their feet when Bane and Barsad arrived back at headquarters. Umarov, who had escorted the pair here, leaned against the wall nearby, his rifle shouldered, his expression unreadable, but he straightened when he saw Bane. Bane nodded his dismissal, and Umarov seemed relieved to be leaving.

            Bane did not look at the teenagers right away, yet he knew their gazes were downward, not only from deference for their mythical commander but from fear. Even the younger one, Davy, who had precipitated this meeting, appeared uneasy, shifting his weight slightly from foot to foot. Of course the boy was wise enough to know just because he had done his unpredictable commander a favor, he was not guaranteed a reward and could in reality end up with something unpleasant. Yet the boy was no doubt trying to remain hopeful that he would indeed be rewarded.

            They stood with their backs to the waterfall, Bane now before them, crossing his arms against his protective vest. The teenagers seemed mesmerized by his powerful limbs, both of the boys swallowing hard, their fear heightening; Bane could smell it. The older, taller one named Jimmy, a Hispanic, met his boss’s gaze, though Bane could tell it took a mighty effort. There was defiance behind the fear, a bravery that made Bane almost regret that the boy was in this situation.

            “Do you know why you are here?” Bane asked Jimmy.

            “No, sir.”

            Always polite and respectful, this one. Yes, growing up at St. Swithin’s would have instilled such qualities in Jimmy. Unfortunately the orphanage had also imparted less desirable traits.

            “David tells me that you have been sewing some discontent among your comrades. Is this true?”

            “Discontent, sir? I don’t understand.”

            Bane glanced at Barsad who stood several feet away, curiously watchful. His lieutenant had shouldered his rifle, and now his fingers played with the jacket pocket where his cigarettes nestled.

            Turning back to Jimmy, Bane continued, “Where were you before you started working for us?”

            The boy’s brow furrowed with deepening confusion. Beside him, Davy had relaxed a bit, enjoying the interrogation and Bane’s displeasure with his companion.

            “I was on the streets, sir. I had aged out of St. Swithin’s.”

            “Hungry, were you?”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “Cold?”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “Alone except for the company of those who wished only to prey upon you?”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “Worried about your younger brother?”

            “Of course, sir.”

            “And now? Do you lack for food? Warmth? Brotherhood?”

            “No, sir.”

            “Yet you show no gratitude.”

            “I am grateful, sir. It’s just that—”

            “You are grateful?” Bane’s tone had taken on sarcasm. “Yet your gratitude does not equate to loyalty. Very unfortunate.”

            Jimmy glanced at his smug-looking companion, reality fully washing over him now like mist from the waterfall. “I was only talking, sir. I am loyal. Who said I wasn’t? Him?”

            “You are an honest lad,” Bane continued. “And because of your St. Swithin’s honesty, I’m confident that you will answer without deceit when I ask you what you have been saying to your comrades down here.”

            Jimmy faltered now, anger tangling his tongue—anger at Davy, anger at the situation and the invocation of St. Swithin’s morality. “It’s just talk,” he stammered. “We all talk.”

            “And what do you talk about? Surely you aren’t trying to put your words into someone else’s mouth? An honest boy like yourself.”

            This stymied the youth even more, and he shifted his weight, wet his lips, eyes flashing toward Barsad, the only direction in which he could flee besides the catwalk behind him, but the latter route would only take him deeper into the underground.

            “Come now,” Bane crooned. “If you’ve done nothing wrong, you shouldn’t be unwilling to speak the truth.”

            More hesitation, then Jimmy rallied his courage. “I was just wondering about the work we’ve been doing, the work your men have been doing. It’s not public works, not with all the explosives we’ve been seeing.” He shrugged one shoulder in an attempt at nonchalance. “I’m just curious is all.”

            “Hmm,” Bane nodded, bringing an index finger up to tap the front of his mask. “Surely you know what they say about curiosity and the cat.”

            Jimmy swallowed again, looked down, but he could not escape Bane’s formidable presence. “Please, sir, my brother—”

            “Your brother is no concern of yours anymore. He has St. Swithin to look out for him. You, however, do not have the benevolent luxury of a saint’s protection. You have only me. And I lack the good saint’s forgiveness. I cannot afford that virtue.” Now Bane shifted his stare to Davy who wilted beneath it, the arrogance instantly fleeing. “Loyalty above all else is rewarded here. Anything less cannot be tolerated.” Fingers twitching, he looked back to Jimmy who was sweating profusely now, regardless of the cool atmosphere. “You have spoken out of more than curiosity. Your seditious words could potentially plant doubt and dissension among our ranks, especially among our younger faction. Your job is not to question our mission but to forward it, to contribute positively to it.”

            “I’m sorry, sir. It wasn’t sedition. If you gimme another chance—”

            Bane’s right hand flashed out, gripped Jimmy by the neck. “We have no time for second chances here.” He met Davy’s wide eyes as the boy backed into the railing near the waterfall. “And we have forbearance only for men loyal to our cause.”

            With one powerful squeeze of his fingers, he crushed the life out of Jimmy. Then he let the body fall to the ground before his boot pushed it into the aqueduct below. Davy wheeled in horror to watch the body of his comrade be carried by the water beyond sight, bound for one of Gotham’s many outflows. Then he jerked back around to stare in terror at Bane, still frozen against the railing, appearing as if he considered jumping into the water and following the corpse to freedom.

            “You are surprised by what I have done?” Bane stepped uncomfortably closer, his chest plate nearly touching the boy who could not find his voice to respond. “When a man takes action against another, as you did, he must be prepared to follow through on his convictions. If he does not, he is as flawed as the one he gave up. Do you understand, boy?”

            “Y—yes, sir.”

            “The next one you bring to me, you will eliminate here in front of me, if you are as resolute and loyal as you have claimed to be. If not, you will prove yourself nothing but a spineless informer, and I have no tolerance for such weakness. Do I make myself clear?”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “Very well.” Bane stepped back. “You are dismissed.”

            Though he tried to leave at a controlled pace, within three strides Davy was running for his life.

            Barsad watched him go, then turned back to Bane, eyebrows raised. “I’d say you made your point.”

            “Let us hope so. I have little time to babysit.”

            “Babysit?” Barsad laughed with cold humor. “I’ve thought of you as a lot of things, brother, but a babysitter ain’t one of ’em.”

            Bane lumbered over to his desk, stared at the battered computer there, felt Barsad’s probing gaze. “I took no pleasure in what I did. The boy had good qualities. I would have preferred he stay alive and serve us. But it was not to be. We must cut out any rot before it becomes a cancer.”

            “I understand, of course.” Barsad pulled the pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

            “But you are displeased.”

            “Well, like you said, he wasn’t a bad kid.” Barsad drew forth a cigarette with his teeth. “But he made the wrong choice, didn’t he?”

            “Indeed.”

            “My concern isn’t about the kid but about you.” Barsad pulled out his lighter but of course did not ignite it. “I understand the pressure you’re under, and I know there has to be an outlet.” He gestured toward the waterfall. “But it’s not just the pressure I see; it’s rage. And we both know rage can sometimes blind us. And when we’re blind we can go in the wrong direction.”

            Bane went to light the brazier. “As always, I believe in letting you speak your mind, brother.” He tossed an unhappy, dismissing glance over his shoulder. “But I think it’s time you go have your cigarette and leave me to my work. Let me know as soon as we hear from Ms. Kyle as to the success of her mission at Wayne Manor tonight.”

            His lieutenant hesitated. When Bane refused to look at him again, Barsad cleared his throat in irritation and at last obeyed his orders.


	44. Chapter 44

            Bane had always been amused by Finn Donnell’s appearance. The Irishman could easily pass for someone nonthreatening like a schoolteacher, with his short, neat haircut, fresh-faced, boyish countenance which could grow hair only sparsely, small build, and natty attire. Only the blackness of his eyes belied the accomplished killer that lived within this façade.

            Finn sat casually in Bane’s desk chair, dressed for his day job. He currently worked for an investment firm in the financial district where his connections would play an important role during the next phase of the League’s operation. He wore a well-tailored, dark suit, his narrow tie black and crimson; red, like Barsad’s scarf from Maysam. Bane had noticed that many of his men had taken to wearing similar scarves now that fall had come to Gotham. An unspoken sign of unity and a symbol of the blood that would soon be shed.

            Barsad sat near Finn, on the edge of the desk, facing Bane who hunched upon his cot, listening to Finn’s report of last night’s function at Wayne Manor, as reported by Talia.

            “Was she able to speak with Bruce Wayne?” Bane asked.

            “She tried, but Pennyworth told her Wayne refused to see her…again.”

            “Did anyone see him besides Selina Kyle?”

            “Yes, our men spotted him on one of the balconies during the ceremonies. He didn’t stay long. He still walks with the assistance of a cane. They said his appearance is rather…disheveled, which coincides with Ms. Kyle’s report.”

            Bane nodded with satisfaction. The Batman was just as they wanted him—weak, should he consider interfering with the League’s plans, as he surely would. And Bane was also secretly pleased that Talia had not met face to face with Wayne. Bane wanted that betrayer nowhere near her, though it was imperative to their plans that she earn Wayne’s trust so they could gain access to the reactor. Wayne had skillfully hidden its location. Yet for just this one night Bane allowed this single small, personal victory. Perhaps Wayne avoided the well-known Miranda Tate because he feared falling under her spell as so many men did. Wayne still carried a torch for his lost love, Rachel Dawes; he would feel he was betraying that memory if he became involved with another woman.

            Finn grinned one of his rare grins, though as usual it lacked warmth. “Ms. Kyle said Wayne fell to the floor like a sack of potatoes after she kicked his cane out from under him.”

            Barsad chuckled. “I like that woman more and more.”

            Bane raised an eyebrow at his lieutenant. Clearing his throat, Barsad killed his smile and reddened slightly.

            “But you tell me our feline friend did not leave the party alone last night,” Bane said to Finn. “Did the good congressman remember his marital obligations and leave Ms. Kyle’s flat after their tryst?”

            Now it was Finn’s turn to squirm. “I’m afraid not. Last I knew he’s still there.”

            Bane straightened with a growl. “What does she think she’s doing? This could draw attention to her and thus to what is in her possession.” He stood. “Barsad, pay a visit to Ms. Kyle and ensure Congressmen Gilly finds his way home. Now.”

            Barsad was already checking his pistol and hurrying toward the nearest tunnel.

#

            Evening had fallen, and Bane was alone in the command post, poring over paperwork from Daggett’s construction company, mentally comparing them to the verbal reports he had received from his operatives. Everything was moving according to plan. There were only a few more pieces left to fit into the puzzle. Soon it would be time to bring Doctor Pavel to Gotham.

            Earlier in the day, John Daggett had informed Bane that his own right-hand man, Philip Stryver, would take delivery of Bruce Wayne’s fingerprints from Selina Kyle tonight. Of course Daggett would not trust such a valuable hand-over to a mercenary. Bane had put up no argument, content to continue playing the dutiful employee to Daggett and his plans to deprive Wayne of his majority holdings at Wayne Enterprises. Little did Daggett know, Bane had his own initiative to depose Wayne, and it did not include John Daggett filling the seat at WE’s board table.

            When Barsad had reported back from Selina Kyle’s flat that morning, Bane had been displeased by his lieutenant’s information. The cat-burglar had insisted upon hanging onto Congressman Byron Gilly until she exchanged the fingerprints for the Clean Slate. “Insurance,” she had told Barsad. While Bane admired the woman’s shrewdness, he did not like the thought of the exchange going wrong and losing what they had gained. Gilly’s disappearance was all over the news after his wife had reported him missing. Selina had kept him drunk, probably sexed up or doped up enough to keep the congressman oblivious to the passage of time and the concerns of his family. Regardless of her tactics, the fact remained that the police were looking for Gilly and so they could also find Selina with Wayne’s fingerprints if she was not careful.

            “Perhaps you were not the man for the job of convincing Ms. Kyle to conform,” Bane had grumbled at Barsad. “You were speaking to me earlier of blindness. Perhaps it is you who have something distorting his vision.”

            Very rarely did Bane ever criticize his lieutenant, and that fact coupled with their personal relationship instantly brought a flush of both anger and injury to Barsad’s scruffy face. “Exactly what are you implying, brother?”

            “Is it not obvious? We are both well aware of your reaction to Ms. Kyle from the first minute you laid eyes upon her.”

            “I’m a man, ain’t I?” Barsad grumbled. “But that doesn’t mean she’s distracted me from my duties. Shit, you know me better than that…or you should.”

            “If I’m wrong, then I should not hesitate to send you to her rendezvous with Stryver tonight, you and your beloved Barrett. Because if your failure this morning to convince Ms. Kyle to give up her pawn leads to the police tracking Gilly to her and we lose those fingerprints, then I will hold you personally responsible, brother.”

            Barsad scowled. “So what does that mean? You’re gonna break my neck, too?”

            Bane had only returned the scowl and dismissed him.

            Now Bane sat back in his desk chair and rubbed his eyes then checked his watch. Barsad would be atop his perch by now, staring down the scope of his rifle at the bar where Selina was meeting with Stryver. Unwittingly Bane growled when he thought of Stryver. The pasty-faced little man reminded him of that boy Davy, one of those kinds who licked at his master’s heels in hopes of retaining favor, who would sell his soul and that of others to retain his position. Once the true fire started, it would be interesting to see exactly how loyal Stryver was to John Daggett.

            He thought of Barsad who was undoubtedly still fuming over the treatment he had received from his commander. Bane did not regret what he had said to his lieutenant. He needed to keep everyone focused, including his second-in-command. Barsad had been hard at work these many months and had had little time to blow off steam in the usual ways, so it was understandable that someone as beautiful as Selina Kyle would stir his lust. Sometimes Bane envied his friend’s ability to relax and revel in the simpler pleasures life could offer. Yet Bane knew those pleasures were not for him, especially now with the culmination of years’ worth of preparation for Gotham’s destruction, for their revenge upon Bruce Wayne. This was not the time for deviation.

            But, he cautioned himself, perhaps he could have couched his reproach differently. After all, Barsad was not a mere foot soldier new to his commander’s ways. He had served flawlessly over these many years and deserved nothing but respect. Bane grunted to himself when he considered Barsad’s words again following Jimmy’s death. Maybe his lieutenant was right; he could easily lose his peripheral vision when the goal at last lay so close in front of his eyes. Collateral damage was inevitable, but Barsad should not be a part of it. Bane needed to retain his loyalty and esteem, if not for himself then for Talia. As the end drew closer, it would be difficult to tell what would befall the three of them, and he needed Barsad to follow his orders to put Talia above his love for his commander, just as Bane had been forced to choose Talia over Melisande on that terrible, long-ago day in prison.

            Beyond his CP, even this late at night, work continued nearby. Men with high-powered tools drilling into the supports of the nearby atrium in preparation for setting charges. The noise was invasive, but the walls, low ceiling, and protective, overhanging tarps helped block the worst of it from Bane. And then there was the muffling effect of his mask to help as well.

            He smiled when he thought of what lay far above him, beyond thick layers of concrete and rebar. Waiting to be cracked open like an Easter egg once the time was right. But what made him smile was not so much the armory itself but the thought of who it belonged to and who would despair the most when it was breached.

            In time the night’s chill deepened, creeping over his flesh. He had removed his shirt and vest long ago after taking his usual walk through the tunnels to keep his back from paining him too greatly. He could have ordered one of the nearby guards to make a fire, but that was a task Bane never delegated. So many long nights in prison he had shivered under his blankets either from complete lack of fuel for his brazier or from an insufficient supply. Ever since his rescue, he had always enjoyed building his own fires, appreciative of every stick, of every log.

            Often he would sit for long periods of time just staring into the flames, frequently thinking back to the League’s former mountain home, Talia sitting on his lap or nearby, the large hearth ablaze, speaking to them in its pleasant tones, filling their senses with comforting smells, reminding them that they were survivors, they were strong, they were together. It was those shared memories that had inspired them to refer to their operation in Gotham as a rising fire. Destruction rising among their enemies, just as he and Talia had arisen from the pit after the world had abandoned them.

            So now he gathered the wood that his men brought here every day and used a metal poker to stir up the near-dead embers from earlier. Carefully he placed fresh wood over them, skillfully tending the coals, prodding them into giving their life to the new wood. As the flames finally flared and licked, Bane remained close, bent on one knee, the poker still in hand, enjoying the renewed warmth, the gentle crackles. Though he had never been to Talia’s penthouse, he knew she had a fireplace. Shutting his eyes, he imagined her sitting before it tonight, reading a book, sipping a glass of expensive wine, wrapped in a luxurious robe, naked beneath it, the fire dancing in her eyes.

            Then he heard them. Two men approaching, dragging something…or someone; Bane did not need to turn to know that sound. The guards said nothing to the newcomers as they passed into the command post. Another man arrived from across the catwalk, and Bane knew it was Barsad; he heard the sound of a heavy rifle with a bipod being set on the ground behind the new arrivals. Then they all stood there for a moment, saying nothing, waiting for him to address them, to stand, but he remained staring into the fire, anger growing as he realized something had gone terribly wrong.

            “Why are you here?” he wheezed the question at last.

            One of them kicked their victim whom they had dropped close to the railing near the cataract. The prisoner groaned as a result. “Answer him,” the goon demanded.

            _Fool_ , Bane thought, his unrest building. But he kept the anger from his voice when he said to his henchman, “I was asking _you_.”

            “It’s the police commissioner,” one of them explained, as if he thought his commander dense.

            Bane tossed the hot poker into an adjacent tureen of water where it sizzled to impotency. Allowing his displeasure free rein, he climbed to his feet. Turning to scowl at the two men, he mocked, “And you brought him down here?”

            The man on the right glanced nervously at his comrade who wore a brown military jacket and dark stocking cap. This man, however, did not dare take his eyes from their approaching boss. Just as Bane feared—two Gothamites. He had wanted to send two of the League’s men, but his core force was spread thin throughout the city. And Daggett had requested the detail to consist of men who had worked for him before. Bane berated himself for allowing it. Now they had a potential mess on their hands.

            Bane noticed how the one looked to the other, and Bane knew from this that the one wearing the stocking cap was responsible for the decision to drag James Gordon down here, like a dog expecting a reward when retrieving a duck to its master.

            “We didn’t know what to do,” the guilty man on the left admitted. “We just thought—”

            “You panicked,” Bane snapped. “And your weakness has cost the lives of three others.”

            Confused, the other goon started to take a step forward as if to defend his companion, saying, “No, he—he’s alone—”

            The sentence was strangled short, just as his step was interrupted by Bane’s right hand clamping around his neck. Bane did not even bother to look at him; instead he stared at the man in the cap who in turn watched his comrade make two choking gasps then collapse.

            “Search him,” Bane said as the man in the cap swallowed hard and glanced furtively at the mask. “Then I will kill you.”

            The man quickly obeyed, no doubt hoping his alacrity would change Bane’s mind and save his life. Bane did not move, did not watch. His attention had shifted to Barsad who said nothing and looked exceedingly uncomfortable, certainly thinking of his rebuke earlier. The fingers of Bane’s right hand twitched in anticipation of the next kill.

            First the goon in the cap handed Bane a sheaf of folded papers, followed by Gordon’s pistol, something that should have been confiscated right away. More incompetence. They were lucky Gordon was too beaten up and near unconsciousness to access the weapon. With these items in hand, Bane turned back toward his desk and unfolded the papers, began to read.

            A speech written by Gordon. Something he had meant to read at the commemorating ceremony for Harvey Dent at Wayne Manor, it appeared, but he had not, for Finn along with the news media would have reported something this significant if Gordon had delivered his remarks. The speech was about Dent. But not Dent the hero. No, this speech was something else entirely…

            Suddenly the shouts of his men erupted all around him, and gunfire shattered the night, blasting over the sound of even the waterfall. Bane did not turn, too engrossed in his reading and already knowing what had happened—Gordon had managed to fall into the aqueduct to escape. Well, judging from the heavy discharge of weaponry from around the atrium, Gordon would be extremely lucky to remain alive for his desperate effort.

            The short-lived bursts of automatic weapons ceased, and the goon with the cap turned back to Bane, a worried look on his face. In an unconvincing voice, he said, “He’s dead.”

            With feigned nonchalance, Bane faced him and indulgently demanded, “So show me his body.”

            “The water flows to any one of the outflows,” the man answered in exasperation. “We’ll never find him.”

            Barsad was already reaching into his jacket for his GPS unit even before Bane held out his hand. While Barsad activated it, Bane’s fingers twitched in impatience, as if Barsad had been tardy in his movements and deserved chastisement. Taking it, Bane lumbered back to the goon and tucked the unit into the man’s jacket. All the while the henchman watched in wonder, perhaps having forgotten Bane’s promise to kill him. Satisfied, Bane zipped up the goon’s jacket like a caring mother and patted him where the GPS rested.

            “Follow him,” Bane ordered.

            “Follow him?” the man frowned.

            Bane pulled the trigger of Gordon’s gun, did not blink as the bullet tore through the henchman and sent his dead body tumbling into the aqueduct to float after the commissioner. With an ominous glance at Barsad, Bane carried Gordon’s speech over to his desk to read by the light.

            “O’Brien,” Bane called to the closest guard. “Track that body and make sure the police don’t find the Commissioner.”

            “Yes, sir,” O’Brien said, then called to two other mercenaries to follow him.

            As the men moved off, Bane addressed Barsad in a growl, “What happened?”

            “I’m not sure. The cops showed up at the bar like someone had given away the location. Shots were fired inside before they even entered, but as far as I know Selina didn’t have a gun. Our boys ran out into the alley, and we exchanged shots with the cops. When those two went down a manhole, I withdrew from my post and came back here by a different route to avoid the cops. Gordon must have followed them.”

            “What about Ms. Kyle?” Bane stared at the papers but was not reading them, almost too blinded by rage at what had just transpired. Even murdering the two henchmen had not relieved his tension.

            “She slipped away; I saw her.”

            “And did she give the fingerprints to Stryver?”

            “I tried to call him on my way down, but he wasn’t answering.”

            “Keep trying. Make sure the cops didn’t get their hands on those prints. Locate Ms. Kyle and find out what happened. I want a full report.” His fingers twitched against the papers, and his attention fell upon Gordon’s pistol beside him on the desk. It had been some time since he had fired a weapon; he preferred to dispatch his victims by hand—it left more of an impression on those witnessing—and leave the bullets to men like Barsad.

            Barsad remained standing nearby. Bane’s attention went to him. His lieutenant’s hooded eyes looked weary, and again Bane reminded himself of the tireless work his friend had been doing for him, of Barsad’s decision to give his very life for him. It pleased him that Barsad did not apologize or beg forgiveness for what had happened tonight. There had never been any weakness in him, something else of which Bane reminded himself.

            “What happened was not a complete disaster,” Bane allowed, holding up the papers. “Commissioner Gordon has unwittingly given us valuable intel. This is a speech he had written, detailing for the world the lie he and the Batman have been perpetrating about Harvey Dent.”

            Barsad shuffled closer.

            “It seems Dent was not Gotham’s white knight after all.” With cold satisfaction, Bane looked up at Barsad and handed him the first page to read. “Temujin used to always tell me that everything happens for a reason. And it would appear he’s right. This information will help us immensely once the liberation of Gotham begins.” He chuckled. “This will discredit both Gordon and the Batman just at a time when the city will be looking to them for leadership. They will have no one to depend upon except us.”

            In silence they both read the entire contents of the letter. Then when Barsad handed the last page back, he quietly said, “I’ll try calling Stryver again. And I’ll track down Ms. Kyle.” He turned away but then hesitated. “I’ll put Umarov on it.”

            “There’s no need for delegation,” Bane said. Their gazes met and held. “I prefer you speak to her, brother.”

            Some of the fatigue lifted from Barsad’s dark face, and the hint of a smile twitched his mouth. “If you insist.”


	45. Chapter 45

            Bane’s men were unable to locate James Gordon at any of the outflows, news that set Bane’s fingers twitching and his mind racing. He hoped that the commissioner had indeed been killed by his men’s bullets and that his body had merely sank in one of Gotham’s basins, but that hope was dashed when GCN reported that Gordon had been rescued by one Officer John Blake and taken to hospital where he was listed in critical condition.

            Immediately word was sent to the League’s contacts in Gotham law enforcement. The men placed among those ranks would ensure that no one believed anything Gordon may say about what he had witnessed in the sewers. The babblings of a grievously injured man whose trauma had muddled his mind and blurred the events surrounding his wounding.

            That morning Bane paid a visit to John Daggett to collect Bruce Wayne’s fingerprints.

            “Your man Stryver was nearly our undoing,” Bane growled at Daggett who stood gazing out his penthouse window, studying Gotham as if it were his kingdom.

            “Stryver?” Daggett turned around, scowling. “It was Selina Kyle who brought the cops down on us. It was your idea to use her for this.” He gestured toward the small envelope that Bane now tucked into his brown Belstaff jacket.

            Bane returned the scowl. “If you had not reneged on your deal with Ms. Kyle, she would have had no need to drag the GCPD into our op. I don’t appreciate being misinformed about the existence of the Clean Slate any more than Ms. Kyle did. I am a man of honor, Mr. Daggett. My deal with Ms. Kyle included her reward.”

            “Ms. Kyle’s reward is the privilege of being allowed to live.”

            “I find that breaking one’s word often leads to unpleasant blowback, Mr. Daggett. You may marginalize someone like Ms. Kyle now, but in the future you may find her with a gun to your head. If I were you, I would not underestimate her.”

            Daggett gave a brief, harsh laugh. “Afraid of a woman, are you? I never would have suspected it.”

            “I said nothing of fear.”

            Daggett scoffed. “Sounded that way to me. You keep your men in line, and let me take care of the women.” He walked toward the bar at the end of the room. “And next on my list will be Miranda Tate. She insists on hounding Bruce Wayne about his damned energy program instead of investing her money with me. Well, after we make our move on the stock market and Wayne Enterprises is in my hands, I will be showing that bitch who’s in charge, and she’ll regret treating me like a fool.”

            Bane’s fists clenched.

            “She’s throwing a charity masquerade ball tonight, but I wasn’t invited. A message from her, no doubt.” Daggett took a shot of brandy from his bartender and downed it with one flick of his wrist. “Well, her days in the Gotham spotlight are numbered.”

            “Perhaps, Mr. Daggett,” Bane coolly said, suppressing his rage, “it is you who fear women.”

            With that, he left the penthouse, knowing that if he stayed a moment longer he would throw Daggett through a window. And the League could not afford to lose Daggett Industries’ funding and infrastructure just yet.

#

            The hour was late, but Bane could not sleep. He knew this without even trying. Instead he sat on his cot with Melisande’s blanket across his lap and crocheted in an effort to settle his mind and banish the restlessness from his body. He had no pattern in mind; he simply made stitch after stitch, row after row, back and forth, back and forth, stitch, turn, stitch again.

            The guards who were posted nearby—their numbers reduced from daytime hours—remained out of sight in the shadows, giving Bane privacy. The command post was dark save for a crude light plugged into a power strip above his cot. It was hung against a bank of storage crates that housed, among other things, weapons and ammunition for the upcoming siege. Two of the crates were stamped “fragile” in large, faded red letters, something that amused Barsad greatly for its close proximity to Bane.

            “That word doesn’t belong anywhere near you, brother,” his lieutenant had teased on more than one occasion.

            Not long ago Barsad had returned from his nightly rounds, smelling of cigarettes. Bane swore he could still detect the scent of the cursed things, although Barsad had retreated to his own cot after making his report. Like Bane, Barsad was well aware of Talia’s activities this night, and he was wise enough to leave his commander to his melancholic thoughts.

            When Bane remembered Daggett’s words about the masquerade ball, he smiled sardonically. Talia ostracizing the slimy bastard pleased Bane. Of course she wanted to cultivate Daggett’s hatred as one way to ensure that neither the tycoon nor his men would ever connect her to Bane’s operations in any way, but Bane also knew Talia naturally despised someone like Daggett. Such men were the reason Gotham had to be destroyed. Bane remembered his training days when Rā’s al Ghūl had explained to him how the League had been responsible for similar purging throughout history, including the Great Fire of London, the sacking of Rome, the fall of Constantinople, among others.

            “When a forest grows too wild, a purging fire is inevitable and natural,” Rā’s had said.

            The well-remembered words brought a wry twist to Bane’s lips. Considering Barsad’s concerns about him lately, perhaps the words of Talia’s father could be applied to him right now. Like an aged forest, he would soon have served his purpose in this life and thus had to be culled.

            “Bane,” Barsad’s voice surprised him, for he had not expected to see his friend again until morning. When he looked up from his work, he found his lieutenant with a troubled expression.

            “What is it, brother?”

            “Talia just called me. She’s back from the ball and wants to talk to you directly.”

            Bane’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Did she say why?”

            “No. Must be important, though, to break protocol. And she wants to talk over the computer, not the phone. Said she wants to _see_ you.”

            The twitch in Barsad’s jaw seemed to confirm Bane’s suspicion that his lieutenant had played some part in Talia’s request. Yet his interest in what Talia had to say—and in _seeing_ her—overpowered his hunch.

            “I hope you tried to dissuade her, brother,” Bane grumbled.

            “Of course.”

            Bane grunted skeptically and set aside his yarn and hook, then climbed laboriously to his feet.

            “Should I stay?” Barsad asked.

            “No. If there is something important to share from our conversation, I will speak with you after.”

            Barsad betrayed no reaction and left the CP. As exhausted as he looked, Bane knew his friend would not sleep until after his discussion with Talia.

            When Bane sat at the computer, he stared at the small monitor for a long moment before activating it. He did not like this. It was too dangerous. No matter how he tried to assure himself that his lines of communications throughout his network were secure, the fact that this was Talia stirred his instinctive concerns for her safety. Why would she break their silence? Was it strictly related to their operation? Or had Barsad indeed been whispering in her ear about his worries over his commander? Had something gone wrong at the masquerade? Had someone there discovered where the proceeds of the charity ball were truly being sent, that Gotham’s elite were actually funding the organization that would inevitably see them all dead?

            At last he initiated the video chat software, waited for Talia to connect. When her webcam revealed her, Bane’s physical reaction was stronger than he had anticipated; in fact, it was painful. It seemed years since he had seen her. Obviously she had just returned from the ball, for she still wore her dress. He could not see much of it in the small square where her exotic face floated on his monitor, for the red crepe fabric came only to the top of her breasts. Her shoulders were tantalizingly bare except for a swath of the fabric that crossed diagonally over her right shoulder, nearly hidden beneath her fall of curled hair. The dress design put him in mind of ancient Greece. Its color brought back the memory of her red dress from that night in London before she had left for Gotham. Small, diamond hoop earrings peeked from amidst her sable mane. Bane imagined the rest of her hair spilling down her back, which was perhaps as exposed as her shoulders. The thought of all those men at the ball seeing so much of her flesh sent the usual waves of furious jealousy racing through him, clenching his fists.

            A small smile of anticipation spread her ruby lips. “Are you there, Haris? I can’t see you.”

            “I am here.”

            “Why can’t I see you?”

            “The camera is disabled. I have no need of it.”

            He could tell by her frown that she had been counting on seeing his face and did not completely believe his excuse. Yes, she would want to read the things in his eyes that his lips would not say, things that only she could interpret. Barsad had indeed been meddling.

            “I can see _you_ ,” Bane said. “That is all that matters.”

            Talia blushed, momentarily lowering her eyes, her mascara making her already-long lashes even longer, even darker.

            “Now, _habibati_ , what is so important that you would break protocol to speak with me? You know I do not approve, and I won’t allow it a second time.”

            Her eyes raised with a slight glint of defiance, one he had known well ever since she was a mere child, one that always frustrated yet pleased him. Her spirit. So like her mother’s.

            “I finally made contact with Bruce Wayne.”

            Bane’s blood turned to ice.

            “He showed up at my masquerade ball.”

            “Did you invite him?”

            “No. I considered it a waste of time. Even before he became a recluse, he rarely attended such things.” She produced a slight, indulgent simper. “How did he put it? ‘Proceeds go to the big fat spread. It’s not about charity. It’s about feeding the ego of whichever society hag laid this on.’ You can imagine his chagrin when I told him I was the one who had thrown the party.”

            Bane forced himself to unclench his fists, delighting in the thought of Wayne’s embarrassment at referring to Gotham’s most beautiful woman as a hag. Wayne could use a good dose of humility. However, Bane did begrudgingly, internally acknowledge that Wayne was not fool enough to believe in the falseness of Gotham’s so-called philanthropists.

            “So why do you think he came there?” Bane asked, feeling the creep of concern that Wayne somehow knew about the daughter of Rā’s al Ghūl. Yet surely Rā’s had been wise and cautious enough to have never mentioned Talia to Wayne.

            “I believe he came for personal reasons since he wore no masquerade mask. I assume he was in search of Selina Kyle. She was there with apparently her next victim. An old oil tycoon. A married tycoon, no less. I can see what Barsad was talking about; she wields her beauty like a weapon.”

            “Like someone else I know.” He could not deny a sad smile. “I will have to find out why Mr. Wayne is interested in our cat.”

            “I believe I already know. After they danced together, I saw him remove a string of pearls from around her neck. I’m guessing she took them from his house when she examined his safe.”

            Bane grunted. “Perhaps so. Another dangerous gamble on her part that I will need to speak with her about.”

            “You might also warn her against her attraction to him. She kissed him. Rather passionately, too.”

            “Hmm. Perhaps she is merely playing him, as she does so many.”

            “Either way, it’s unwise to have her close to him. She could betray us.”

            “I doubt Ms. Kyle will. After all, she is looking forward to the punishment people like those at your party will receive once the fire rises. She has suffered her whole life as one of those whom society marginalizes.”

            “I hope you’re right.”

            “Enough about Ms. Kyle. What did you accomplish with Wayne?”

            “I brought up the clean energy program. I believe I made an impression upon him.”

            The coquettish lift of one of her sculpted eyebrows aroused Bane further. However, the pleasure she obviously derived from such games with men like Wayne dismayed him. She should not even have to speak with such fools, let alone flirt with them.

            “You make an impression on every man, _habibati_ ,” he could not help but say. “How could it be otherwise?”

            She tried to dismiss the compliment. “I believe I have at last pried the door open. Perhaps we should thank Ms. Kyle for enticing Wayne out of his self-imposed exile. She has paved the way for me to earn his trust. But I will not make it too easy for him. I sense he is a man who enjoys a bit of the chase.”

            Bane was glad Talia could not see his face, for his eyes bulged with indignation. There had to be a way to get access to the reactor without Talia debasing herself for Wayne.

            “I sense he is very vulnerable right now,” she continued. “Both physically and emotionally. Isolation has not been kind to him.”

            “He deserves every cruelty that has come his way. Finn shared with you the contents of Gordon’s speech. Wayne has been deceiving everyone in his beloved city. That is the reason for his withdrawal from society—his guilt.”

            “You’re right, of course. Perhaps that guilt will encourage him to do something to give back to his city, like reinstating the energy program. But we cannot wait forever. He must have an incentive.”

            “He will get all the incentive he needs tomorrow.”

            Talia’s eyes showed concern. “I hope you have changed your mind about leading tomorrow’s operation.”

            “I have not.”

            “It will expose you. It’s too soon. Once we have control of the reactor, then you can—”

            “No, Talia. I need to be there to ensure the operation does not fail. I don’t need to tell you how crucial it is.”

            “Deadshot could lead the op.”

            “True, he could, but I prefer to have him and his Barrett deployed where he can provide cover, if needed, when we exit the building. And Daggett expects me to be the face of this, so when Wayne’s downfall opens the door for his takeover of Wayne Enterprises, he will not be suspected of engineering it. As he said, no one would ever believe that he could be connected to someone like me.”

            Talia scowled. “It’ll be a good day when he’s eliminated.”

            “Indeed. But for now he is necessary.”

            “As are so many other unpleasant things.”

            Bane’s expression softened as did his voice. “Are you all right, _habibati_?”

            Forcing a smile, she tried to recover from her moment of weakness. “Of course. I’m just tired. It’s been a long day and a long night. Meeting my father’s murderer so unexpectedly has taken a bit of a toll, but nothing I can’t overcome.”

            “Are you sleeping well?”

            “Well enough. But it doesn’t sound like you are.”

            “Don’t believe everything Deadshot tells you. I have told you before—he is a mother hen sometimes.”

            “He loves you, Haris. And I’m grateful that he keeps me informed. But don’t worry, I know he doesn’t tell me everything. He’s too faithful and respectful of you to do that. Don’t be too hard on him…or yourself.” She hesitated, and some of the old Talia slipped back into her wonderful eyes, that child-like softness, banishing Miranda Tate. “I’m worried about you. I feel as if you’re doing everything, and I’m sitting here in this obscene perch, doing nothing.”

            “You are playing your part. Things are as they should be. Think nothing more of it. You are the one being too hard on yourself.”

            She slumped slightly, her gaze drifting away from the screen, in the direction of her bedroom. Though Bane had never been in Talia’s penthouse, he knew the layout intimately. He allowed himself to hope that she was remembering the things that he was now remembering of their times together.

            “You are lonely,” he said without thinking, saying what was in his heart more than his head and immediately berating himself for the lapse.

            “A little,” she murmured, her eyes avoiding the camera.

            Bane frowned, hoped she was not thinking of LePage. “Since I cannot be there for you, you know you can always confide in Finn. He would do anything for you, _habibati_.”

            “I know. He’s been a good friend over these last years, and he’s been particularly attentive lately.” She smiled almost shyly. “I’m sure you’ve had a hand in reminding him to be.”

            “I remind all of our brothers to be attentive to you…always.”

            Talia’s lips twisted ruefully. “They should be attentive only to one thing—our plan.”

            “Even that is not as important as you.”

            She blushed again. “Haris…”

            “I was thinking of your mother earlier. If only she could see you now, sitting there with that fire burning behind you, warm and safe, every bit as beautiful as she was, and with more power than her vile father ever had.”

            “I still miss her. Is that strange after all this time?”

            “Of course not. I miss her as well.”

            “Do you think we’ll see her again when this is all over?”

            “I would like to believe so.”

            Talia nodded thoughtfully.

            “Now,” he said after a lingering pause, “we must not be maudlin. We should both be…asleep.” He had almost said “in bed” but had managed to keep such undertones to himself. “There is much to be done tomorrow. No doubt GCN will provide a front row seat for you and all of Gotham.”

            “Promise me you will be careful.”

            “There is nothing to fear. We are well-prepared.”

            “All the same, promise me.”

            “As you wish,” he smiled, pleased to see genuine concern in the faint glistening of her indigo eyes.

            “I wish I could see you. Can’t you enable the webcam for just—?”

            “There’s no need. Soon enough we will see one another face to face. I can’t tell you how much I look forward to that day.”

            Her finger reached longingly up to her webcam, and Bane closed his eyes, remembered her touch upon his lips, ached for it again.

            “Be careful tomorrow,” she whispered, close to tears, her loneliness palpable through the monitor. “I can’t lose you, too.”

            “You never have to fear that, my dear.”

            Her finger drifted away from the lense. Her tiny smile showed both relief and fatigue. And perhaps a hint of forgiveness for what he had done to Dominic LePage. Bane liked to believe so as he said good night.


	46. Chapter 46

            Bane’s gloved hands flexed against the BMW motorcycle’s handlebars. He glanced at his watch. Just a couple more minutes.

            The late day sun sliced down the busy street where he sat his sport bike at the curb, his dark clothing absorbing the warmth. People flowed by on the sidewalks, completely oblivious to him, his visage hidden by his helmet’s full, dark shield. He wore a Downtown Courier Service vest over his Belstaff jacket; just another faceless worker in Gotham’s financial district.

            Bane had purposefully chosen the color of his motorcycle helmet—red. Not only would such a color make him easily seen by his men later on the streets, but it would make him stand out to those watching on television and to the police who would chase him. The choice had also been inspired by the scarves Barsad and many of his brothers wore, not to mention the elements of power, blood, and fire symbolized by red.

            He had not ridden a motorcycle in years, not since that fateful day in Shanghai when Temujin had been killed. As if it were just yesterday, he remembered his frantic dash through the congested streets, desperate to reach the warehouse where Temujin was, undercover as a member of the robbery gang to which Bruce Wayne then belonged. Bane’s team commander, Damien Chase, was at the location, and when the sound of gunfire crackled over his com, Bane knew instinctively that Temujin was in trouble. Fearing Chase had no intention of helping the Mongol, Bane had risked life and limb to get to the warehouse. But no matter his breakneck driving, he arrived too late and found Temujin dead in the street, surrounded by police. He had managed to recover his friend’s body and escape on the motorcycle.

            Now checking his watch again, Bane fired up the bike, drove the two blocks to the Gotham stock exchange’s rear entrance. There he parked beside three other sport bikes. With resolute strides, he mounted the stone steps, his fists momentarily clenched in anticipation. He had no weapon except his hands; not only did he feel no need for such, but a gun would be immediately discovered by the first guard if he was patted down. He needed the security force at the entrance to be as complacent as possible, as they most surely would be this late in the day.

            One guard stood on the near side of a metal detector, looking bored. Bane, still wearing his helmet, lumbered up, barely paused as he dropped the courier bag on the table in front of the guard for inspection. It was empty, of course, as the man would soon learn, too late. Bane continued without hesitation through the detector, which the metal components of his hidden mask instantly set off.

            “Hey, rookie,” a female guard on the other side said in annoyance, gesturing to her head. “Lose the helmet. We need faces for camera.”

            It was not easy to remove the helmet, of course, because of the mask, and Bane purposefully showed no sign of urgency.

            “C’mon,” the woman said impatiently. Then when she beheld the mask, her entire expression opened in shock. But the immediate smash of Bane’s helmet against her face wiped away both emotion and consciousness.

            The guard to his right lunged for him. Seamlessly Bane wheeled and blocked the man’s blow with his left arm, bashed him in the head with the helmet in his right hand, sending him senseless to the floor. Like a graceful dancer, Bane turned to the left to meet the third guard, this one with a pistol in hand. Bane clutched the large man’s arm to keep the muzzle away, slammed the helmet into the man’s gut, driving out his breath. Smoothly he ducked under the guard’s arm, shifting his hand to the pistol, his eyes now upon the guard on the other side of the detector. That man’s pistol was raised, pointing, but he held fire out of fear of hitting the guard in Bane’s grasp. Bane’s powerful fingers compelled his victim to squeeze the trigger and kill the foolishly cautious guard. With lightning speed, Bane forced his opponent’s arm backward, cracking the man’s own fist and pistol into his face, dazing him. Using but one hand, Bane whipped the man around in front of him and finished him with a roundhouse blow from the helmet.

            Though it had taken mere seconds to dispatch the four, it had been enough time for all stock exchange employees who had been near to scatter in every direction with terrified screams. Bane ignored it all, turned away from the carnage as if he had done nothing more than flick a few insects from his jacket.

            With unhurried, measured strides he started for the doors leading to the main floor of the exchange. Just then his three operatives inside opened fire with their Uzis, bullets spraying everywhere, people diving for cover, monitors and security cameras demolished by the gunfire, popping and sizzling, sparks flying. Bane smiled with cold satisfaction. Salim, Braddock, and Jennings had been posing as simple, unassuming service workers, ignored and marginalized by the traders in their suits who controlled ungodly sums while employees like janitors, delivery men, and shoeshiners scrabbled for pennies to pay the bills. Well, those suits were looking at those three a little differently now, and they were about to be introduced to an even bigger nightmare.

            Opening one of the glass doors, Bane stepped into the suddenly frozen mosaic of the stock exchange proper where just moments before all had been noise and movement. Wide eyes turned to him, to the mask, the familiar terror on people’s faces as they now cowered even closer to the cold floor. Bane breathed in the satisfying smell of fried circuitry, his glance taking in everything at once, making sure all was as it should be, as he had planned it. When his attention swung toward one of the trading desks—one of the islands in the middle of this ocean of greed—he found a man in a dark suit and tie who had retained his seat, whether from shock or courage Bane was unsure. He approached him, but the trader did not flinch.

            Bane shoved his motorcycle helmet into the arms of a trembling man wearing an orange jacket who sat near the trader. The orange-clad worker was too petrified to do anything but stare at the masked intruder and dutifully embrace the helmet.

            As Bane reached to check the trader’s ID badge to determine his clearance level, derisive arrogance rang in the voice of the clean-cut young man, “This is a stock exchange. There’s no money you can steal.”

            Bane matched the man’s disrespectful tone, “Really? Then why are you people here?” He grabbed the trader by the tie, close to his throat, and wheeled him and his stool several feet toward the online trading desk. With one fling, Bane sent the trader and stool crashing into the desk. The trader looked back at Bane, the arrogance replaced by fear, and gaped, speechless now. With the quickness and deadly power of lightning, Bane pounced, both hands driving the trader’s head into the desk with a sickening crunch. The young man never moved again, his upper body resting on the desk as if he were merely asleep.

            Almost casually, Bane inserted the trader’s ID badge into the desk’s card reader, gaining access for Salim to initiate their program. Quickly Salim knelt next to him, setting his Uzi and laptop on the desk. He was a skilled technician. Bane knew he would work quickly and efficiently. But the clock was ticking. Bane could already hear the wail of GCPD sirens outside.

            Bane began a slow stalk around the large room, like a wolf circling a frightened herd of deer. He emitted a growl as he twisted a kink out of his neck from his dispatch of the guards. Then he nodded encouragement and appreciation to Braddock nearby. As he moved he looked directly into the eyes of his hostages, unblinking, the fierceness that lurked within keeping them all to heel.

            Pushing his cuff back, he glanced at his watch. His man should be in place now, his cement mixing truck blocking off the narrow street that would be used for Bane’s escape, a tactic to slow down their pursuers. By now the police would be raising the automated street barricades, something that would stop a car but not a motorcycle. And all of those motorcycles that had been parked out back had by now been brought into the rear of the building by his other men who would have then melted away before the police arrived.

            The GCPD had surrounded the building quickly. Bane felt the weight of the force: SWAT teams as well as every available unit in the area. Snipers on rooftops, unknowingly targeted by Bane’s operatives stationed in surrounding buildings. The colorful strobes of police cars danced against the exchange’s windows and doors. Images of the whole crisis would already be flashing across televisions and the internet, all over Gotham and the world. His father would be watching. Talia would be watching. Maysam would be watching. The two women would worry for him. The thought of their concern made him smile, made him forget his father.

            Not much time had passed before Salim informed him, “They cut the fiber.”

            Bane nodded. Of course the authorities would first disable the fiber cable. It would be easiest. This was expected.

            “Cell’s working,” Salim assured.

            “For now.” He glanced toward one of the windows, then turned, his hands clasped together in thought and an effort to keep his restless fingers still.

            A few minutes later he calmly asked, “How much longer does the program need?”

            Salim glanced up at one of the screens on the online trading desk then at Bane. Concern etched deep furrows in his forehead, the gray of his heavy stubble seeming even grayer than usual. “Eight minutes,” he replied.

            Bane waved a hand at Jennings who was watching the hostages closely. “Time to go mobile,” he ordered nonchalantly.

            At that, Jennings shouted, “Everybody up!” and fired his Uzi into the air. Screams echoed in the cavernous room once again.

            Salim flipped the monitor of the laptop and closed it so the screen was now on the outside, visible so the progress of the running program could be easily monitored. Then he dropped it into his backpack and took up his Uzi again to help Jennings and Braddock select their human shields.

            Bane stepped over to the employee who still clung to the red motorcycle helmet as if his life depended upon it. Or perhaps he thought it could serve as protection against the flying bullets. When Bane reached for it, the man was still too petrified to let go, and Bane had to give it a second tug to free it, doing so almost gently, with no irritation. Turning away, he said, “Thank you.”

            They brought the sport bikes onto the floor and herded the cowering masses toward the front doors.

            “None of you will be hurt,” Bane assured, “as long as you do as you are instructed. You will exit the building slowly, with your hands held up, all as one, tight together. We will be behind you. If anyone deviates from these instructions, you will be shot.”

            Bane mounted his BMW and fired it up. Standing next to him, his female hostage trembled, his hand encircling her wrist like a manacle. She had been pleading with him to let her go, staring beseechingly with teary eyes at the shield of his helmet, but now the motorcycle engine drowned her out. With inexorable power, he pulled her in front of him on the bike and revved the engine, smelling her fear, sensing no warmth in her body, nothing but frigid terror.

            On his command, the exchange workers crowded toward the front doors, barely moving, so obviously concerned with being shot not only by the men behind them but by the tense police force outside. The first ranks opened the doors and started slowly down the steps, arms dutifully raised. Bane could feel the weight of dozens of aimed weapons. Smiling behind the mask, he revved the bike again, waited a moment longer until more workers had filed out. Then he gestured forward with one hand as a signal to his men behind him, also revving their engines, their excitement as palpable as that of the exchange employees’ fear. Salim, Jennings, and Braddock also had hostages on their bikes, shields for when they appeared outside, shields that would be cumbersome but necessary only for a critical moment.

            Bane gunned the accelerator, startling the people in front of him, some of their screams making it to his ears. Unconcerned with running any of them down, he plowed forward. The herd split before him, and the bike bounded down the steps, his men close behind. Police cars and SWAT trucks everywhere. But all of those men were powerless to use their weapons for fear of hitting the hostages on the four sport bikes.

            They roared past poised policemen. In a flash, Bane recognized Deputy Commissioner Peter Foley behind a police car, walkie talkie in one hand, pistol in the other, shouting, “Hold your fire!” Then another face, less known, but familiar somehow. His sharp mind flashed back to the news report about Gordon’s rescue, the fresh-faced officer who had saved the commissioner. John Blake.

            Bane turned right, shoving his hostage off as he did so. The woman tumbled to the pavement with an outcry barely heard over the noise of the motorcycles.

            One of Daggett’s construction men had his cement mixing truck right where he had been told to have it—blocking the street onto which Bane had turned, affording him cover as he sped away from the main force of police. Ahead of him the raised street barriers, short steel ramps. No obstacle at all for the sport bikes, but impediments that would slow the closest pursuit cars, for the barriers raised and lowered ponderously. Accelerating, Bane leapt his BMW over the first barrier and the hood of a squad car. A second barrier lay directly ahead, only a few meters, giving Bane enough time to recover balance after landing off the first one. Police cars parked at angles beyond the second barrier, but they had foolishly left enough room for Bane to fly over the barrier and between them, for they had not anticipated the criminals’ maneuverable mode of transportation. It was all over in an instant, the cops obeying the order not to fire. Now all that lay before Bane was an open street in the encroaching twilight. But the chase would be on.

            He thrilled in the exhilaration of the moment after so many weeks underground with very little physical activity. The adrenaline raced through him, strengthened him even more as he glanced back to see Salim, Jennings, and Braddock close behind. Jennings and Salim still had their howling hostages on their bikes, but Braddock had dumped his.

            They followed their pre-planned route, staying together for now, racing through the darkening streets of Gotham. With occasional glances behind, he saw police units chasing them, an outrageous display of flashing lights painting the sides of buildings. But unwieldy squad cars were no match for lithe sport bikes, so Bane and his men easily eluded their pursuers. Even if they closed with them, the police would remain reluctant to take shots at the bikes.

            They passed into the lower section of a double-tiered freeway, the ceiling low and claustrophobic. One police car had drawn closer, the screams of its siren filling the cement structure. The motorcycles dodged in and out of the cars and taxi cabs. Jennings lingered in the back now, for his hostage was behind him on the seat, providing the perfect human shield, hands cuffed behind him to discourage any thoughts of leaping from the bike or attacking his captor. Even now the fool kept pleading for his freedom. Bane pulled ahead, checking the clock in his head. Still needed a couple of minutes more for the program on Salim’s laptop to finish running.

            Suddenly the lights that illuminated the freeway flickered then went out. Bane’s motorcycle sputtered and choked. The lights came back on, then went off again. Some strange anomaly, Bane thought. Hopefully nothing that would interfere with Salim’s laptop.

            He glanced behind. Whatever had interfered with the lights had disabled Braddock’s bike, and the hostage leapt off, fleeing, while Braddock drew his pistol. Bane turned forward, never looking back again. Braddock was lost, and probably Jennings also, for he had fallen behind, too, the anomaly affecting his motorcycle as well. They did not matter; Bane knew if they were taken alive they would never betray the plan. Salim carrying the laptop was the only one who mattered.

            The two sport bikes cleared the structure and emerged into full night, onto a broad, two-way street. Bane pulled even with Salim and his still-screaming hostage to reach into Salim’s backpack. He removed the laptop long enough to check the time remaining on the screen. Ninety seconds. So close to Wayne’s financial downfall. He needed to distract the pursuing policemen for less than two minutes.

            He throttled back on the bike, hit the brakes as Salim swung past him and continued on. Putting his foot to the pavement, Bane spun the bike around in the opposite direction with a squeal of tires, then gunned the BMW straight at the approaching police cars. They would know by his red helmet who he was, and hopefully they would pursue him instead of Salim.

            The motorcycle shifted swiftly, smoothly as he hurtled faster and faster toward the cars. But just a short ways from being among them, he identified a strange, dark shape, low and quick, in the vanguard. A motorcycle? No, it was too close to the ground…and something billowed crazily from the rider’s back. In the next instant they passed one another close, and both he and the other rider looked over their shoulders at one another.

            Bane could not deny a moment of shock. There was no doubt. He had seen that black flash before on television and newsreels. Of course he would show up now, now after hearing about the Masked Man in the sewers and at the stock exchange.

            The Batman had been roused back into action.

            A smug glow of satisfaction warmed Bane for an instant, but then his mind returned to the moment. In a blur he passed in a straight line through the speeding police cars, but none of them altered course. This surprised Bane until he realized they cared more about capturing the man accused of killing Harvey Dent than they were the unidentifiable Masked Man or Salim. Foley would figure having Braddock and Jennings in custody would lead them to the Masked Man soon enough. First, Foley—a man Bane knew to be greedily ambitious—wanted a different feather in his cap. Very well, Bane thought, let the Batman unwittingly further the League’s plan by allowing him to escape. Batman might catch Salim, but it was already too late.

            Bane dodged his bike down an exit, into further darkness. Pulling over, he watched the obscene flood of GCPD vehicles shrieking by, then he turned the bike and headed deeper into the shadows.


	47. Chapter 47

            Bane rode the elevator alone up to John Daggett’s penthouse. When he had boarded, he thought it odd that the usual security guard had not been near the elevator. A soldier’s sixth sense told him something significant was amiss. His fingers twitched. Perhaps he should have waited for Barsad to join him after the stock exchange operation, but Daggett had summoned him, and Barsad was a considerable distance away still.

            Daggett’s invitation, communicated to him through Stryver when Bane had called to report the success of the mission, had surprised him. After all, though Bane was certain no one had tracked him after the police had dismissed him to chase the Batman, he had not expected such boldness from Daggett immediately after the operation; he had expected instead caution. The fact that Daggett felt immune to persecution bespoke his utter and complete arrogant self-confidence. He would think he was almost through with Bane, perhaps only another day for his grand scheme to be fully realized, then he would be through with the masked mercenary, and Bane would vanish, taking with him any connection between them that the authorities might try to exploit.

            Bane, of course, had no desire to meet with Daggett, but for now he still needed to play his part as Daggett’s tool and act as if the billionaire’s goal and his goal were one and the same. Daggett probably thought his audacious, dangerous invitation to a terrorist whose strange visage had just been seen around the globe would remind Bane who had the bigger balls. At this, Bane chuckled darkly.

            One possibility behind Daggett’s invitation could be that he had discovered the scope of Bane’s utilization of his construction assets. As with so many other aspects of Gotham, Bane’s men had infiltrated the construction companies in management positions, unbeknownst to Daggett. This gave the League the ability to move crews throughout the city and carry on projects that had little to do with construction and more to do with destruction, once the time came for the League’s fire to burn for the world to see. Yet even if Daggett had discovered how his employees were being manipulated, it was too late for him to reverse what had already been accomplished. If all went according to plan, tomorrow there would be no John Daggett to interfere.

            When Bane emerged from the elevator, he found Philip Stryver sitting on the marble steps leading up to the posh room where he usually met with Daggett. One pant leg of Stryver’s suit was raised, exposing a flow of blood from a nasty gash on his shin that he was attempting to staunch with a linen napkin. His attention lifted to Bane, and the usual uneasy expression drained away the last of the color from his high cheekbones. Behind him came several armed men, Bane’s men assigned to Daggett. They looked to him instead of Stryver.

            “That fucking bitch,” Stryver spat, wincing. “Look what she did to me.”

            Bane ignored him, instead looking to one of his men. “What has happened?”

            “Seems the Catwoman paid Daggett an unscheduled visit,” came the answer. “Grabbed him and went through the window in his office onto a window cleaning platform. We’ve already sent men after them. She took him onto the roof of an adjacent building.”

            “She’d better not do anything to him,” Stryver said, then looked over his shoulder at the men and their guns. “Well? Go after them! That bitch needs to be taught some manners.”

            The men continued to look to Bane who at last said, “Come with me.”

#

            When Bane emerged on the roof with his men, he beheld a chaotic scene. The first security detail had engaged Selina Kyle in a swirling fury of violence, but Selina did not fight alone. An imposing caped figure in black fought alongside her. Bane smiled in amusement. So the Cat had indeed caught Bruce Wayne’s interest when she had stolen his fingerprints; Talia had been correct as usual. And obviously Wayne had no idea for whom Selina worked.

            For a moment Bane held his men back. From his location on an observation deck, he was elevated higher than the rooftop to which Selina had taken Daggett. From this vantage point Bane watched the two dark figures fight off their numerous attackers. Easily Bane recognized the League’s training behind Batman’s technique, every move calculated and effective, swift and powerful. Selina was almost as impressive with her cat-like speed and flashing heels, the same heels that had ripped open Stryver’s leg. The image pleased Bane. She was indeed a valuable asset.

            So interested in the battle was he that he barely noticed Daggett scrambling away from the melee, coming in his direction. Before descending nearby steps to meet the tycoon, Bane said to his half dozen men, “Frighten them off, but don’t shoot them.”

            When the guns opened fire, Batman and Catwoman disengaged their nearly-devastated adversaries—no small feat, Bane knew—and bolted toward the opposite end of the flat rooftop. Without hesitation, Batman leapt off the building, disappearing into the night. Bane sauntered across the roof, hands lightly gripping the lapels of his jacket, mimicking Rā’s al Ghūl’s familiar posture. Selina glanced back once, hair swirling with her movement, then looked over the side of the building after Batman. In the next moment she jumped off, too. Bane did not quicken his pace.

            The noise of a large engine, what sounded like an aircraft, had replaced the gunfire. A helicopter? Bane wondered. No, a different sound. Before he reached the edge of the rooftop, the vehicle rose before him, lit from within and without by discreet, muted bluish lights. Everything about the black craft’s design screamed stealth. Its forward beams drenched Bane in light, but he did not blink, did not take his gaze from the vehicle. He could see Batman in the cockpit. Their eyes met, unreadable at this distance, but Bane could feel the connection. At last. His chest swelled with satisfaction and anticipation of their next meeting. Behind Wayne, Selina Kyle sat as if the co-pilot in a fighter jet. Even through the glass—surely bulletproof—Bane sensed the fear in her eyes. She knew he had seen her.

            Large rotors on the underside of the aircraft propelled it, guided by an interesting system of angled and overlapping elevons. Smoothly the hovering vehicle pivoted away from Bane. A marvelous weapon, Bane contemplated as his gaze ran over the high caliber guns mounted on either side of the cockpit. Yes, the advent of Batman’s latest toy was no surprise; the billionaire was nothing if not progressive in his pursuit of utilitarian modes of weaponized transportation. Bane had flown helicopters many times over the years and now wondered what it would feel like to pilot such an aircraft as this one. The vehicle angled itself with a brief whine so that its rotors now faced more rearward. Then with a deep-throated growl, it fled. Bane watched it maneuver over the nearby buildings until it was lost from sight amidst Gotham’s contrasting patchwork of darkness and dazzling lights, leaving him curious and secretly impressed. In time, that aircraft would be his, as would everything else Bruce Wayne held dear.

            “Why didn’t you shoot them?” Daggett’s harsh voice broke into Bane’s thoughts, instantly irritating him. “Didn’t you see who that was? Batman has seen us together, for fuck’s sake.”

            “You have no need to worry.” Bane at last faced him. “I doubt Gotham’s most wanted criminal would be believed if he tried to convince the police that one of the city’s wealthiest businessmen was colluding with a terrorist.”

            “Easy for you to say; you have nothing to lose. I have everything to lose.” Daggett’s muddy eyes were nearly starting from his head, anger pulsing a vein in his neck.

            Bane merely gave him a dismissive stare.

            “That damn bitch,” Daggett’s tirade continued. “Next time I see her, I’ll shoot her myself.”

            “I can guess why she was here. Did I not warn you about the perils of deceiving her?”

            Daggett gave a harsh, brief laugh. “It was worth it to see the look on her face when I told her the Clean Slate is a myth. We don’t need her anymore; she’s outlived her usefulness. Get rid of her…permanently. Or I will.”

            Bane glanced off into the night in the direction Batman had flown. “She is still useful to us.”

            “She’s allied herself with Batman. We can’t trust her.”

            “Trust? No, we could never trust her, Mr. Daggett. But that is not required. What is required is her continued cooperation if we are to see the complete downfall of Bruce Wayne.”

            With a glance toward the men nursing their wounds from the skirmish, Bane moved past Daggett. Of course Daggett—doomed fool that he was—would assume that his use of the word “we” referred to the two of them. Thinking of Talia, Bane smiled behind the mask.

#

            “Bring her to me,” Bane had said these words to Barsad an hour ago, and now Selina Kyle stood before him in the command post, trying to hide her anxiety over being summoned here to the inner sanctum where she had never before set foot. She could interpret in one of two ways his motives for bringing her to this covert CP: he trusted her—which she should be intelligent enough to know was not the case—or he felt confident in his control over her and would instantly kill her if this location was compromised. Added pressure on her, pressure that would keep her in check.

            Bane sat at his desk, attention on the reports in front of him. He let the woman stand there and wait for him to acknowledge her. Barsad stood off to the side.

            “You have my apologies, Miss Kyle,” Bane rumbled when he finally turned, his chair creaking under his weight.

            These were obviously not the words Selina had expected to hear; her jaw loosened slightly in surprise. But she quickly recovered, and her cherry red lips twisted with a bit of cheekiness. “Apologies for what? Dragging a girl out of a nice warm bed to come down to this dank hole? I’m not sure I can accept that apology.”

            Barsad’s gaze flicked to Bane then away, a tiny smile of amusement touching his lips. Yes, Barsad would enjoy Selina’s biting wit; after all, it matched his own. For a moment Bane wondered if Barsad had shared her bed yet. Would his lieutenant tell him? If he were asked, he surely would say, but Bane knew he should not be concerned enough to do so.

            “No, Miss Kyle,” Bane continued. “I am referring to John Daggett’s failure to compensate you with the item I had promised in our original deal. I am an honorable man who delivers what he promises. But I was shortsighted in my belief that Daggett indeed had the Clean Slate. For that, I apologize.”

            Smugness eased some of the tension from Selina’s body. She had forsaken her Catwoman costume for more practical clothing—a sweater under her short wool jacket, and tight-fitting jeans, the rearview of which Barsad admired unabashedly.

            “I would like to believe he’s lying,” Selina said. “Maybe—since you’re such an _honorable_ guy—you can find that out for me.”

            “Perhaps. But I have more pressing matters at the moment, Miss Kyle, as you are well aware. I can, however, assure you that Daggett will never deceive either one of us ever again.”

            Selina arched an eyebrow. “Sounds…ominous.” She smiled. “I like that.”

            Bane got to his feet and drew closer to her. He sensed her strong desire to step away from him, but she held her ground. “However, you should not have threatened Daggett tonight, especially without my permission.”

            “Your permission?” She scowled. “I delivered what you asked for, and I’m guessing you put it to use at the stock exchange. Our dealings should be done.”

            “Should be? I’m afraid not, Miss Kyle. But don’t be vexed over it. After all, with what is coming to this city soon, it will serve you and your young friend well if you remain useful to us.”

            She eyed him suspiciously, but she was wise enough to know that he could indeed safeguard her better than anyone else in the kind of life she led.

            “Now, let us discuss the reason why I summoned you here.” He paused, allowed her discomfort in his nearness and his unknown motive to unsettle her more before continuing. “Why did the Batman come to your aid?”

            Selina hesitated before answering, rallying her nerve in order to maintain her façade of unconcern. With a glance at Barsad, one corner of her mouth lifted. “Obviously he liked what he saw.” She shrugged one shoulder as if thinking better of her innuendo. “A crusader who came to the aid of a damsel in distress.”

            “Don’t play me for a fool, Miss Kyle.”

            Caution killed her half-smile. “Okay. Have it your way. I’m not sure how he knew I was at Daggett’s, but I think he was following clues.”

            “Explain.”

            “Turns out the Batman is friends with Bruce Wayne. He was trying to find out why Daggett wanted Wayne’s fingerprints.”

            “He said this to you?”

            “Yes.”

            “And what did you tell him?”

            She hesitated again, and he knew she was testing a lie in her head. But she wisely decided against using it. “I told him I didn’t know. I just said that Daggett seemed interested in what happened at the stock exchange.”

            Bane continued to stare down at her, determining that she was being truthful. What she had divulged to Bruce Wayne could in actuality help their cause. Suspecting Daggett of a move against his company, Wayne would be even more motivated to seek an alliance with Miranda Tate.

            “Very well, Miss Kyle. But I warn you against any further interaction with Batman or Bruce Wayne.”

            “Bruce Wayne? Who said I had any ‘interaction’ with _him_?”

            Bane’s expression softened with conjured indulgence. “We are well aware of your evening at Miranda Tate’s masquerade ball, Miss Kyle, as we are aware of everything you do.”

            Anger colored her porcelain skin and darkened her eyes, but she offered no reproof.

            “As penance for your recent lapse in judgment, there is something you must do for me, seeing as how you are such friends with the Batman.”

            “I met the man once in a rooftop brawl. That hardly makes us friends.”

            “I’m sure you left an impression on him…and his friend Bruce Wayne. And because of that, you will arrange a meeting between myself and Batman. He now knows you are connected to Daggett and that Daggett is connected to me. Because of that he will seek you out as a way to find me.”

            “Why don’t you just go find him yourself?”

            “Don’t be a foolish child, Miss Kyle. After what we did at the stock exchange, for now it is best if I remain underground.” He stepped back and extended his arms to either side. “And there is something down here that I wish to show to our mutual friend.” Concern flitted across Selina’s eyes, so Bane added, “No need to fear for the Batman. After all, he has yet to meet anyone who can best him, has he not? I am a mere mercenary while he is a legend.”

            The displeasure on Selina’s face made it plain that she divined his sarcasm. “What if you’re wrong and he doesn’t ask to find you?”

            “I am not wrong.”

            She shook her head with a wry grin. “Well, when you are wrong, I want to be there to see it.”

            “If you don’t do as I bid, Miss Kyle, you won’t be alive to see anything,” he growled. Then to Barsad, “Escort Miss Kyle back to the surface.”

            But Barsad instead called to one of the nearby guards, “Abraham.” The black man stepped forward without a word, waited for Selina. When Barsad turned back to Bane, there was purpose in his eyes, one that instantly unsettled Bane.

            Bane waited until Abraham had taken Selina from the CP before he spoke again, this time with forced teasing, “I expected you to jump at the chance to chaperone our Cat, brother.”

            Surprisingly Barsad ignored the bait, and Bane turned away to make their evening tea, finding that he wanted to delay whatever it was Barsad appeared about to express. The tension and arduous activities of the day suddenly caught up with him, and he found that all he wanted was to crawl under Melisande’s blanket and sleep. Tomorrow would be another demanding day, as would all that followed until the end.

            “Dr. Pavel has arrived?” Bane stalled.

            “Yes. Finn’s men brought him down earlier.”

            “Very good.”

            Barsad shuffled closer. “Bane.” When he failed to draw his commander’s attention, he pushed on, “What’re you bringing Wayne down here for? That wasn’t part of the plan.”

            “Have you forgotten, brother?” Bane poured water into a kettle. “The plan has always been to punish Bruce Wayne for his many injustices against us. That is what I intend to do.”

            “How? I mean, blowing up his city with him in it is pretty strong punishment, I’d say.”

            “Bruce Wayne must know who it is who is punishing him. Down here I will show him exactly how weak he has become, living off the lie he and Gordon have created. And when he witnesses the breach of his armory, I will see in his eyes the loss of the very things he thinks can keep him strong. When I am through with him, I will have destroyed his finances, his resources, his body, and his soul.”

            “You’re gonna kill him yourself then?”

            “No, brother. Death would only give him what he wants. No, he must be made to suffer, as we have suffered all these years. I will take him to the pit prison, and from there he can watch as the fire consumes his beloved city, a city he can no longer save. _Then_ he will die.”

            “Talia doesn’t know you plan to do this.”

            Bane set the kettle on the hot plate and ignited the burner before turning to his lieutenant. “She does not. Nor will she find out until he is delivered to the pit.”

            Barsad frowned, avoided his eyes and moved toward Bane’s cot. “Jesus, Bane…”

            “It’s not that you disapprove,” Bane observed. “There is something else, something you aren’t telling me.”

            Sitting on the cot, Barsad clasped his hands, restlessly rubbed them together, his thin lips tight with indecision. Bane knew by his friend’s struggle that this had to do with Talia, for with anything else Barsad would never hesitate to be forthright. The long moment stretched on, causing Bane’s fingers to twitch. Barsad, of course, noticed. Bane stilled the tic so as not to discourage his lieutenant from revealing his secret.

            “You two,” Barsad said at last with a gentle rush of exhalation, as if he had been holding his breath. “Jesus, you’re gonna be the figurative death of me as well as the literal, you know?”

            “What is it, John?”

            Barsad frowned again. “Before you have Wayne brought down here, you need to talk with Talia.”

            “I already told you that she will be informed when the time is right.”

            “I know what you said. But you’re not the only one with personal plans of vengeance for Wayne.”

            “Speak plainly, brother.” Bane angled his desk chair to face Barsad and sat to ease his back’s nightly protests. “Talia has shared something with you.”

            “I wish she hadn’t.” Barsad ran one hand through his disheveled, short hair. “Naturally she made me promise not to tell you.”

            Bane tried to make him feel at ease by offering a brotherly smile. “And you fear the consequences should she find out? Rest assured, I will protect you from her wrath.”

            “It’s not her wrath that concerns me.”

            “You know I cannot contact her, not now. Not with everything on the cusp. We are too close to risk jeopardizing a key component to our plan by communicating directly. That is what you and Finn are for. If you prefer, I will ask Finn to share the information with me.”

            “Finn doesn’t know.” Barsad glanced toward the nearest guard, who had moved out of earshot when he and Bane had begun their private conversation. “Talia couldn’t tell him, even if she wanted to, not with the agreement between you two to keep your relationship under wraps.”

            Now Bane’s concerned curiosity grew to an unbearable level, and his iron stare kept Barsad from looking away again. “Tell me, John.”

            “I’ll tell you on one condition.”

            “There will be no conditions.”

            “God dammit, for this there will be.”

            Bane’s stare did not relent. Any other person would have withered beneath it and babbled out all secrets. But Barsad was the one man who would not. And the agitation swirling now in Bane made it impossible to outwait his friend.

            “What condition am I to consider?”

            “I want your word that you won’t go off your nut when you hear this. Talia needs you focused for tomorrow. That’s why she would rip my balls off and feed ’em to me if she knew I was telling you this shit tonight of all nights.”

            Bane considered, could not wait any longer, not when it involved Talia, especially if she were in danger. “You have my word, though your insinuation about any lack of control on my part is insulting, even for you, brother.”

            “Well, we won’t get into another debate about that right now,” Barsad said wryly.

            “Good. Now tell me about Talia.”

            Barsad unclasped his hands, ran them along his thighs, rested them on his knees, back straight, feet firm upon the floor as if ready to flee if needed. He revealed deep sadness and regret through his hooded blue eyes, like someone about to deliver the news of a death to a family member.

            “Like you, Talia wants personal revenge against Bruce Wayne. And also like you, she feels death is too simple and easy for him. She wants him to suffer and to know her father’s destiny was not only fulfilled but that his murder was avenged. So tomorrow, if things go according to plan and Wayne hands over control of Wayne Enterprises to her to keep Daggett out of play, she plans to cultivate a…an intimate relationship with Wayne, make him care about her, so when she reveals her true identity before the end, he’ll feel betrayed, like her father did when Wayne destroyed your home and killed your brothers.”

            Propelled by instant outrage, Bane shot to his feet with a speed he had not known since his youth. Freeing a loud growl, he stalked toward the railing near the cataract. He gripped the metal with a fury so powerful that he could have bent the railing if he had tried. With burning eyes, he stared through the waterfall, his heart pounding through his shirt, hammering against the steel plate of his vest. Then, as if it were yesterday, he remembered his final, brutal argument with Rā’s al Ghūl, heard the echo of his own words: “She’s old enough to understand what you have planned for her. Tell her how she will become Bruce Wayne’s whore.”

            “This is my fault,” Bane said, his chest heaving as he tried to control himself, his breath wheezing through the mask.

            “What?” Barsad drew closer to hear him over the rush of water.

            “I drove the wedge between Talia and her father. Her guilt over his death is because of that wedge. And now she’s trying to earn his forgiveness by following his original plan for her.”

            “She’s not marrying the asshole.”

            “No, but she is giving herself to him.”

            “You’re reading too much into this, Bane. Talia’s actions are her own. You aren’t the cause of ’em.”

            “You are mistaken, brother. You know her well, but not as I do. She thinks this will purge her demons and achieve reconciliation. Though every fiber of my being desires to stop her, I can’t interfere again.”

            “Damn right you can’t. It’ll just piss her off anyway, and it won’t stop her. She told me as much, if you were to find out.”

            With a force of will, Bane conquered his rage, but instead of draining away, it simply morphed into a deep, penetrating, agonizing sadness. He took comfort in knowing that in only a few short months, such pain would be taken away from him forever.

            Barsad rested his hand on Bane’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, brother. But after hearing what you said to Selina, I had to tell you. You can’t supersede what Talia has planned. It’ll only damage your relationship more, and I know that’s not how the two of you want to go out.”

            Bane’s fingers relaxed on the damp railing. “I won’t get in her way. I will let her have her personal moment with her enemy. The memory of it will torment Wayne in prison.” _The same way my memories of being in her arms torture me_ , Bane thought.

            “Wait…what? Prison?” Barsad’s hand fell away. “Didn’t you hear what I just told you? You said you wouldn’t interfere—”

            “As I said, she will be allowed her moment. But then I will have mine. And she will not have to debase herself again. Wayne won’t know our connection until after he’s had time to mourn his separation from his new love. Then, in time, when Talia’s true lineage is revealed to him, he will experience an entirely different form of pain.”

            “You do this, she’s gonna know I told you. She’s gonna think you did it because of her sleeping with him. And she’s going to be pissed at you all over again. Don’t do this, Bane. Not now.”

            “Your concern for our relationship is appreciated, brother.” Bane lumbered toward his cot. “But my plans for Wayne will go forward, regardless of what you’ve told me tonight. Later you may tell Talia that I had made such plans without knowledge of hers, if that will ease your conscience.”

            “Dammit, Bane, this isn’t about me. We should all be sticking to the original plan. Messing with someone like Wayne isn’t the wisest move. He’s Batman, for God’s sake. He’s had the same training as you.”

            “You fear that I cannot beat him?”

            Barsad faltered. “If there’s one man on earth who has even a chance of besting you, it’s him.”

            “You have nothing to fear, brother.” He settled on the cot with a low grunt of discomfort, thought of Talia’s large bed in her penthouse, saw her nestled amidst the blankets, her hair wild, her face peaceful. “The news you have just shared with me will fuel my strength. My hatred of the man, my rage over Talia’s sacrifice and my inability to protect her from such an injustice, will ensure that Batman will be no more.” Through his eyes, he conveyed a reassuring smile to ease Barsad’s distress. “For that, I thank you, brother. And I bid you good night.”

            Bane’s soft stare allowed no further room for argument, and Barsad’s shoulders sagged with a sigh of capitulation. Mumbling, “Fuck,” his lieutenant shuffled out of the CP. Bane watched him go, then thanked Maysam for blessing him with such a loyal, invaluable friend.

            He removed his clothing, turned off the lights, and slipped beneath Melisande’s blanket. Closing his eyes, he allowed the white noise of the waterfall to calm him. But he knew he would not sleep, not while being tormented by the thought of Talia in Bruce Wayne’s arms.


	48. Chapter 48

            With deep satisfaction, Bane finished reading the article in the _Gotham Times_ and dropped the newspaper onto his desk. He stared at the headline one more time: _Bruce Wayne Doubles Down and Loses_. Smiling, he flipped back to the front page and its main headline: _Batman Back to Foil or Mastermind Stock Raid_. Yes, Bruce Wayne had helped them in more than one way last night. The Caped Crusader’s reemergence at the same time as the stock exchange operation had led the media and thus the whole city to shift focus from Bane to Batman as the driving force behind the attack. This, along with the influence of Bane’s men inside the GCPD, had ensured a lackluster effort to locate the mercenary.

            With a glance at his watch, Bane turned away from his desk. Impatience twitched his fingers and drove him from the command post out onto the catwalk. He glanced toward the top of the vast atrium, toward his men standing watch on the concourse. Then he stopped to observe the water rushing below.

            Another check of his watch. How long would Talia’s morning meeting with Bruce Wayne take? Was the purpose of the meeting as they hoped—Wayne requesting that Talia take control of Wayne Enterprises and the energy program? Or was it something else? According to Finn Donnell, the invitation to Miranda Tate had been vague but urgent, something that needed to be attended to prior to the emergency board meeting at Wayne Tower. Finn had said that the private meeting was not taking place at Wayne Tower. An interesting detail. Considering Wayne’s sudden and dire financial situation and his fear of Daggett getting his clutches on WE, how could the meeting be anything but for the reason Bane and Talia desired?

            The thought of Wayne and Talia alone together set his fingers dancing again until he clasped his hands together, irritated at the visible sign of unrest. He had slept little last night after hearing Barsad’s revelation. His mind had turned the situation over and over a hundred times or more, weighing different options, planning what he would do to Wayne and how he would explain it all to Talia afterwards. Of course she would be furious that he had again taken matters into his own hands without consulting her, but he had borne her ill will before; he would have to do so again, for her sake…and his, he admitted.

            Though he fought against the images, he saw Talia now with Wayne. She would charm him, especially if they were indeed alone. Even the reclusive billionaire would be unable to resist her continued and dogged onslaught to gain his trust and more. No doubt she had dressed alluringly, wore an extra dash of her intoxicating perfume, and she would use the beauty of her expressive eyes to her advantage, as she had with Bane and so many others.

            Bane’s fists tried to clench, but he resisted the impulse. How he looked forward to confronting Batman, to crushing him and condemning him to the pit. He would take him there himself; he wanted to witness Wayne’s reaction when he first saw his surroundings and fully realized his fate. Of course Barsad would argue against such an indulgence just when the fire was about to blaze, but Bane would turn a deaf ear; he would not be deprived of his moment of triumph. He would allow himself to enjoy this one, last bit of pleasure.

            “Bane!” Yemi’s deep voice turned him.

            The Nigerian strode with long, powerful strides along the catwalk, Barsad in his wake. Both men’s animated expressions foretold good news.

            Seeing his ex-prison comrade so closely on the heels of his thoughts of the pit stirred Bane’s feelings of brotherhood. Their paths had only infrequently crossed since Yemi had come to Gotham years ago with Talia, as part of her personal security force. And even since Bane had arrived in the city, Yemi’s duties kept him away from his commander. Yemi had surely accompanied Talia to her meeting with Wayne, though Wayne no doubt allowed no one but Talia into the conference. Obviously Talia had entrusted the big Nigerian to deliver her report of the encounter.

            “It is a pleasure to see you, old friend,” Bane greeted him with an undeniable smile, clasping his hand. “It appears you bring good tidings.”

            “The best. Talia sent me straight from her meeting with Wayne.” He reached into a pocket to retrieve a small piece of paper.

            “Has Wayne given her the authority we wanted?”

            “Yes. And even better he allowed her to see the reactor itself.” He handed the paper to Bane.

            Numbers written in Talia’s hand. Coordinates. The location of the reactor. Bane could feel Barsad’s grin, his lieutenant clapping Yemi on the back, Yemi returning the grin. Bane looked at the two of them, his own smile tugging at the edges of the mask. For a brief moment his breathing was clear and free, as if the mask did not exist.

            “The maps, gentlemen,” he said and led the way into the CP. Several men had reported there, standing along the fringes, waiting for orders that would soon come. Bane only glanced at them as he hurried to his desk. Spreading out one of the maps of Gotham, he used the coordinates to pinpoint the reactor’s location. Yemi conveyed Talia’s description of the bunker that housed the reactor beneath the river, a location that allowed the chamber to be easily flooded if necessary.

            Turning to Barsad, Bane ordered, “Get men over there to analyze the location and set charges. I will join you shortly.”

            “Yes, sir.” Barsad hurried away, taking the newcomers with him.

            “Talia is on her way to the board meeting,” Yemi said.

            “Excellent. It won’t be long, then. Thank you, Yemi.” Bane rested a large paw on his friend’s shoulder. “It was right of Talia to honor you with relaying this news. You have served her admirably.”

            “It has been my honor.” Yemi’s white teeth flashed again. “She’s come a long ways from that little girl in the pit. Now she rules over one of the most important men in the world and his entire empire.”

            “Indeed.” Bane squeezed his shoulder then released him. “Tell me, how did she seem after the meeting?”

            “Very pleased, of course.”

            “Not worried?”

            “No. Confident. Strong.” Yemi nodded. “Resolved.”

            Bane returned the nod, smiled with pride.

            “You made her that way, Bane.”

            “No.” Bane’s gaze drifted to Melisande’s blanket. “Her mother did.”

#

            Bane’s fingers fluttered in eager anticipation as he moved silently across Daggett’s marble floor. He heard the man’s angry voice coming from the far end of the room, having just returned from the Wayne Enterprises board meeting where he had lost his bid for control. Bane knew this from Finn’s triumphant phone call.

            Daggett’s question boomed throughout the penthouse, “How the hell did Miranda Tate get the inside track on the Wayne board? I mean, had she been meeting with him? Had she been sleeping with him?”

            Stryver wearily responded, “Not that we know of.”

            “Clearly you don’t know much of anything, do you?” Daggett snapped. “Where’s Bane?”

            “We told him it was urgent.”

            With disgust Daggett sneered, “Oh, where is that masked—?”

            “Speak of the devil,” Bane interrupted flippantly, turning the two men, “and he shall appear.” He nearly chuckled to himself over the instant alarm on the men’s faces, knowing that they probably thought he was indeed the devil incarnate, standing there in the center of the room as if he had materialized out of thin air. No doubt they were amazed that such a big man could move so silently.

            While Stryver froze in his tracks, Daggett advanced upon Bane, his outrage masking any fear, his terse question measured out, “What the hell is going on?”

            With hands folded together to keep his fingers still lest his tic forewarn Daggett of his doom, Bane lightly responded, “Our plan is proceeding as expected.”

            “Oh, really?” Daggett was close to a sarcastic laugh as he halted in front of Bane. “Do I look like I’m running Wayne Enterprises right now? Your hit on the stock exchange, it didn’t work, my friend.” His words took on a venomous tone. “And now you have my construction crews going around the city at twenty-four hours a day. How exactly is that supposed to help my company absorb Wayne’s?”

            Any amusement Bane had felt toward the spewing little man died quickly away. He shifted his attention to Stryver who remained at the far end of the room, watching with near-panic in his eyes. “Leave us,” Bane told him.

            “No!” Daggett turned slightly toward Stryver, raising a rebuking finger. “Stay here. I’m in charge.”

            Bane gently set his left hand on Daggett’s shoulder, his palm toward the man’s neck. Ominously he breathed, “Do you feel in charge?”

            Stryver abandoned all hesitation and fled. Bane was confident that he would not alert security; he valued his own neck too much and probably sensed that he was about to be in need of new employment. And even if he did fetch someone, Bane could easily escape with either his own skills or that of his men who were nearby.

            With Stryver gone, leaving them very much alone, the bravado died in Daggett who rolled his eyes up at the mask. “I’ve paid you a small fortune.”

            “And this gives you power over me?”

            Near a whisper now, Daggett said, “What is this?”

            Bane’s left hand drifted to the tycoon’s face, the back of his fingers almost caressing Daggett’s cheek before his massive paw cradled the side of his head. “Your money and infrastructure have been important…till now.”

            Daggett’s respiration had increased, and he could barely get out the words, “What are you?”

            “I’m Gotham’s reckoning. Here to end the borrowed time you’ve all been living on.”

            Daggett began to squirm, terror nearly choking off his final words, “You are pure evil.”

            The mocking tone returned to Bane as he said, “I’m necessary evil.” His right hand crossed over Daggett’s blanched face, engulfed it. And as the man began to scream against Bane’s palm, Bane jerked his arm and snapped the tycoon’s neck.

#

            “Selina just called,” Barsad said, hurrying into the CP a short time after Bane’s return from Daggett’s penthouse. “Wayne left her apartment a few minutes ago. Like you expected, he came to her to try to find you.”

            “And when will our Cat be accommodating Mr. Wayne’s request?”

            “Tonight.” Barsad swallowed hard, studied his commander, the excitement dying away. “Are you really going through with this?”

            Bane tossed him a hard look. “Brother, you know I won’t deviate from my plan.”

            Barsad frowned. “I’ll redeploy more men here.”

            “There’s no need. Those assets are required elsewhere. I can dispatch Batman myself.” His eyes crinkled. “You may watch, if it will ease your mind, brother.” He pulled his ringing phone from a jacket pocket. “What is it, Yemi?”

            “It’s Talia. She’s heading over to Wayne Manor. She wouldn’t say why, and she told me not to tell you. You know I normally would never go against her orders, but something doesn’t feel right. She’s insisting on going alone. I argued against it, of course, but she wouldn’t listen. I thought you or Finn might be able to talk to her.”

            Bane’s blood ran cold. His jaw tightened, and he growled out the words, “No, brother. Leave her be.”

            A pause. “What?”

            “She has her own mission to complete. I am aware of her reasons, rest assured.” _And her reasons turn my stomach_. How he wanted to stop her, to rush over to Wayne Manor and intervene, to kill Bruce Wayne right then and there in front of her. But he had to think of the larger picture, of making Wayne suffer much deeper, much longer, and to allow Talia her moment of personal revenge. She deserved that.

            “Stay close should she need you, Yemi, but do not interfere.”

            Slight confusion colored Yemi’s response, “Yes, sir.”

            Bane disconnected the call, his thoughts blinding him to his immediate surroundings, taking him from the CP to Talia. He closed his eyes, willed his thoughts to reach her, to stop her from debasing herself, to keep her from sleeping with the man who least deserved such exquisite pleasures, such privilege.

            “Bane,” Barsad’s voice drew him back, opened his eyes. Deep concern lowered Barsad’s brow. “Are you all right?”

            For a moment Bane stared at him, almost looked through him. Then he turned away, not wanting to allow even Barsad to see the pain that ripped through him. “When our guest arrives later, you will not interfere. Do you understand? Your men will stand down.”

            “But what if—?”

            “There will be no ‘what if.’ I will break him. I will tear that mask from his face. Make sure my jet is ready for my departure immediately afterwards.”

            “You’re gonna leave…right now?”

            “As I told you before, I will accompany Wayne to the prison. I will be there to tell him of his fate, of the fate of his city. Then I will fly back.”

            “I’m going with you. Talia would want me to.”

            “No. You will stay here in command. You will make sure we are ready to gain access to the reactor, that Dr. Pavel will be ready. As soon as I return, we will pay our visit to the Wayne Board, as planned.” And he would see Talia again, knowing what she had done and knowing he had displeased her once again. “Say nothing to Talia. I will tell her of Wayne’s fate myself.”

            The worry lines multiplied on Barsad’s worn face. “That’s not gonna go well.”

            “No, it will not. But there is no help for it.” He glanced back at his friend. “Now leave me, brother. I need to prepare myself physically and mentally for our visitor.”


	49. Chapter 49

            Far above Bane’s lair, night fell, ushering in torturous hours that progressed at a crawl, hours Talia was spending with Bruce Wayne. Bane kept himself occupied first with work, with preparations for their soon-to-be-realized plans for Gotham, then with meditation and exercises to prepare for his confrontation with Batman, then with crocheting to keep his hands busy and his mind calm. But no amount of discipline and training could overpower the storm of emotions within him.

            He berated himself for his jealousy. As much as he liked to think of Talia as his emotional and sexual property, he knew he had no such rights to her, not now, not since Gotham had consumed her. Yet it was that consumption that drove some of his anger over tonight’s situation. He should have protected her from Gotham’s influence, from the influence of obscenely wealthy men like Wayne and those before him. But how? Talia’s interactions with such men over the years had led to the League’s ability to wage this war on Gotham. A necessary evil. His own words mocked him.

            After pondering the various scenarios of how he might have spared Talia from her current life, the only viable option was one he had never before considered.

            He should have killed Rā’s al Ghūl.

            If he had done so before Talia had learned of her father’s unsavory plans for her future, then she would never have felt the guilt and obligation to uphold her martyred father’s wishes years later. True enough, if Talia had learned of the assassination, Bane would have suffered her hatred. But it would have been a sacrifice worth making to save her from the life of lies she led in Gotham. Perhaps through a much different path she could have found love, married and had children, as her mother had. A peaceful, happy life of which Melisande would approve and welcome for her only child. And if Bane had kept hidden his hand in the murder, perhaps he could have stayed closer to her than his current life allowed. He could have protected her always.

            Thinking of such things was a foolish waste of time, he rebuked himself. Temujin had often warned him about wishing for things that the past had already erased. And besides, how could he truly have killed the man responsible for rescuing him from the pit and providing Talia with a home and family? A man who had taken him in after his own father had rejected him.

            Yet when images of Talia having sex with Bruce Wayne invaded his thoughts, he did think of murder. What if Talia fell for Wayne’s charm? The man was, after all, well-versed in attracting beautiful, powerful women. What if, instead of duty, it was attraction that had driven Talia into Wayne’s arms? After all, he had a face women craved, a face that lacked Bane’s deformities and grotesque mask. True, Talia had never shown even a hint of hesitation or repulsion over the mask and what lay beneath, yet now that she was older, more experienced, and had been away from him so much…

            _You are weak_ , he silently snarled at himself. Yet he could not hate that weakness, for that weakness was his love for Talia. Other times in his life, it had strengthened him, but now it tried to destroy him by distracting him at a time when he needed all of the focus he could muster.

            Bane forced his attention to his watch. It was nearing midnight. Midnight, when the Cat had said she would deliver Batman. Taking in a deep, sustaining breath, he pushed away his troubling thoughts. But not too far away, for he would use his hatred as fuel. He stood and removed his shirt, donned his protective vest, along with his support belt. Then he left the CP and climbed the stairs to the next level, his steps ponderous but determined, his boots echoing on the concrete.

            He stepped onto the concourse and toward the catwalk. The flowing water of the aqueduct far below reflected the atrium’s halogen lighting upward, spackling the ceiling, bouncing against the walls near Bane. Men were stationed throughout the atrium; Barsad had increased the force by a few men, against his commander’s orders, of course, but Bane allowed his friend this small act of insubordination. Besides, when he was through with Batman, these extra men would be available to enter Wayne’s armory once breached.

            Barsad stood near the catwalk, Abraham nearby. For a moment Bane thought his second-in-command meant to block the entrance to the catwalk, for he wore a worried yet determined expression on his scruffy face, and his hands formed into loose fists.

            “The charges are ready?” Bane asked.

            “Yes, sir.”

            “Who has the detonator?”

            “Riley.”

            Standing now at the railing, Bane looked downward to find Riley near the entrance to the lower catwalk, opposite the CP.

            “Bane.” Barsad stepped close, away from Abraham who dutifully moved back toward the shadowy wall. Keeping his voice low, Barsad continued, “You don’t have to fight him. We can just take him to the plane after he sees us blow the armory—”

            “Brother,” Bane’s quiet but forceful word silenced Barsad as he placed a hand on his lieutenant’s shoulder. With confident assurance, he smiled. “Even weakened as he is by the passage of years, he is strong enough to escape if whole. I must break him.”

            Barsad sighed in frustration, shifted his weight.

            “You will give me your word that you will not interfere, brother.”

            “You’ve already taken my gun from me. Isn’t that enough?”

            “No.” Bane nodded toward Abraham. “You might acquire another, if Abraham or one of the others are foolish enough to disobey my orders. And so I require your pledge.”

            Barsad was as close as he could be without his nose touching the mask. “God dammit it, Bane, you’re the one being foolish here. You’re taking an unnecessary risk. There’s too much at stake.”

            Bane’s hand dropped away, but his small smile remained. Somewhere in the distance he heard gunfire. “Our guest approaches,” he murmured and held his friend’s gaze with sharp authority. “You will remain at your post, brother. Give me your word, or I will have you removed from this place.”

            Barsad’s jaw clenched, his stare unflinching but full of many emotions, things that took Bane back to their time as prisoners of India’s intelligence agents. They remained there, toe to toe, for a long moment. The brief gunfire in the tunnels died away.

            “Barsad,” Bane rumbled.

            His friend’s lips tightened briefly, then he softly snarled, “You have my word, you God damn stubborn fool.” Begrudgingly he allowed Bane space to step onto the catwalk.

            Bane halted just a few feet out, saw shadows approaching on the concourse across from him, nearing the opposite end of the catwalk. Figures cloaked in black clothing, one slim and sleek, the other large and almost ethereal. With a deep inhalation, Bane cleared his mind, briefly closed his eyes, opened them with a cleansing exhale. He straightened his damaged back and lightly gripped the straps of his protective vest, adopting Rā’s al Ghūl’s common stance. Would Bruce Wayne remember his mentor’s familiar pose?

            From the shadows Batman stepped onto the catwalk, and one of Bane’s men activated a grated door which then slammed down behind the Caped Crusader, right in front of Selina Kyle, separating the two dark figures. Batman immediately whirled back toward Selina. Bane did not move, merely waited, breathing evenly, softly through the mask, listened to Selina’s words of regret to Batman.

            “I had to find a way to stop them trying to kill me.”

            In his guttural, false voice, Wayne told her, “You made a serious mistake.”

            To which Bane replied, “Not as serious as yours, I fear.”

            Slowly Batman turned. Their eyes met. Bane released a final long breath, his outer calm hiding his inner delight over finally coming face to face with the man responsible for so much of Talia’s pain as well as his own.

            “Bane,” Batman growled.

            “Let’s not stand on ceremony here,” Bane said glibly, “Mr. Wayne.”

            Behind Batman, Selina’s face opened with shock at hearing of Batman’s true identity.

            Bane lumbered forward, his heavy, cadenced steps on the grated bridge telegraphing his power and weight, his head bobbing slightly side to side with his movement, revealing the relaxed nature of his body. His hands remained on his vest, his entire posture emanating calm and confidence as his enemy approached with the same conservative gait. But then Batman attacked. He landed a punch to Bane’s left side, followed by a two-handed blow to the mid-section. Bane made no move to defend himself. An uppercut blasted against his chin, drove his head back. A backhanded blow to the mask snapped Bane’s face to the left.

            Enough!

            Bane’s left hand flashed up like a great eagle claw, clamped down on Batman’s driving right, froze the blow mid-swing. Bane’s attention shifted from their joined fists to his opponent’s surprised eyes, the skin around them blackened to match the cowl. Frowning, Bane taunted, “Peace has cost you your strength.” His other hand blocked and held Batman’s left. “Victory has defeated you.”

            He smashed Batman’s own hand into the cowl, staggering him. Bane’s powerful kick to the mid-section drove his opponent even farther back as he went on the offensive, hammering Batman with a flurry of blows. Batman ducked under one of them and got behind Bane who instantly wheeled to meet him. Finally Batman blocked one of his devastating punches and smashed a head-butt against Bane, growling again. Worthless vocalizations that Bane knew would sap his enemy’s stamina.

            Bane drifted backward, vaguely aware of Barsad now in his field of vision, Abraham between Barsad and the catwalk entrance. With continued snarls, Batman came at him, and Bane allowed it, hands loose at his sides. Four blows, alternating hands, directly against the mask. Bane let him experience how solid the mask was against his efforts to dislodge it. When Batman attempted a sideways kick, Bane easily blocked it, then drove a swinging backhander against Batman’s head and a thunderous kick to the chest that sent his opponent cartwheeling off the catwalk. Batman’s memory fabric cape acted like bat wings, breaking the man’s fall and allowing him to land on his feet at the bottom of the atrium, next to the aqueduct. Fluidly Bane swung over the railing and used a vertical chain to shimmy quickly in pursuit.

            Batman barely had gotten to his feet when Bane grabbed him with one hand and swung him around into a thick steel stanchion. But Batman recovered quickly, turning just in time to deflect Bane’s right-handed blow, then he broke the hold Bane’s other hand had on him and struck with a flashing left to the mask. Though the force of the punch turned Bane, it did not stop him. He sledged a right into Batman’s chest, forcing him back a step. Bane swung again, but Batman ducked beneath his arm, not low enough, however, to elude Bane’s left hand which grabbed the back of his neck, keeping him close. With his forearm, Batman blocked another right-handed drive. Bane maintained his hold on Batman’s neck, trying to drag him closer to minimize the man’s reach and thus his power.

            An unexpected uppercut flung Bane nearly off his feet, but he maintained his hold, even when Batman’s extended right attempted to break his grip. Bane bent him forward, tried to unbalance him, but the man had his feet firmly planted, and now he had his hand on the back of Bane’s head, using the same tactic, both men battling to overpower and drive the other to the floor. Batman’s left slammed into Bane’s protective vest, and while the blow did not hurt, its energy drove Bane backward. Another blow, then another and another; Bane allowed it, put up no resistance, inviting his enemy to expend more precious energy that he could ill afford. Batman finally broke Bane’s hold and joined his hands behind Bane’s neck, pulled him into his chest, drove a knee upward against Bane’s brace which absorbed the blow.

            With a bull-like twist of his shoulders, Bane broke Batman’s hold, surprising the man. Displaying the incongruous agility of a ballet dancer, Bane used his inertia to jump and spin at the same time. His swinging left arm knocked away Batman’s aiming right while his right fist came down like a sledgehammer, dropping Batman to the grated flooring close to the aqueduct. Drawing in a renewing breath, Bane stepped toward his gasping enemy, unhurried, knowing Batman could not get up. He kicked the man in the gut, eliciting a cry of pain. Again he waited while Batman crawled up the steps to the bridge over the aqueduct. Bane followed at his leisurely pace, allowing Batman to gain his feet.

            With an enraged, wounded roar that echoed throughout the atrium, Batman brought his fists up in a defensive posture, mouth open as he struggled to breathe. Bane could see desperation in his dark eyes, the dawning realization that here was someone who might actually defeat the vaunted Batman, the legend, Gotham’s savior. This desperation made his next attempt to strike wild and impulsive, opening himself up to a devastating body blow that doubled him over. Bane freed his own rage then, nearly driving Batman to his knees with a left-hand blow, followed by two alternating blows that completely overwhelmed his opponent, pushing him to the opposite end of the small bridge. Bracing one hand on the railing, Bane blasted Batman with a boot to the chest and sent him hurtling off the bridge onto the floor where moisture from the aqueduct rained down upon him, glistening on the batsuit.

            Lying on his back, Batman scrabbled at his utility belt, flung several flash-bang devices at Bane. They exploded in sparks, smoke, and noise around Bane who did not flinch, still standing like a conqueror on the bridge, looking down at his enemy with cool disdain.

            “Theatricality and deception,” Bane repeated words Rā’s al Ghūl had once said to him and no doubt to Bruce Wayne. “Powerful agents to the uninitiated.” He started down the steps, footfalls heavy and ominous, unrelenting, as Batman regained his feet. Bane continued, his voice dripping with superiority, hoping his words had reminded Wayne of the man he had betrayed, “But we are initiated, aren’t we, Bruce?” He drew closer. “Members of the League of Shadows.”

            Still not finished, Batman charged him with surprising speed, but Bane ducked and bobbed like a prize fighter, avoiding blows then delivering one himself into Batman’s gut, driving out his air, and folding him down into his waiting grip. Bane’s right hand closed around his opponent’s neck, lifted him off his feet like a doll. As Batman choked and sputtered, prying at Bane’s hold to no avail, Bane carried him several steps, illustrating his superhuman strength.

            “But you betrayed us,” Bane continued.

            “Us?” Batman gasped. “You were excommunicated by a gang of psychopaths.”

            The words should not have surprised Bane, but the derision behind them cut him deeply, increased his hidden rage and sliced him with sadness when flashes of memories of his friends like Temujin, Choden, and Akar blinded him. All within a second, as if time stood still, coupled with a flashback of his final argument with Rā’s al Ghūl when he had been banished. Talia’s tears that night; her fight with her father; her fear of losing the one constant in her life. How dare Bruce Wayne, of all people, mock such a brotherhood, the only family Bane had ever known?

            He released his rage, slamming two devastating body blows into Batman with a power not even the batsuit could absorb completely. Then Bane threw his enemy to the ground several feet away, close to the aqueduct where water spilled over the sides from the force of the waterfall. Completely winded, Batman slowly regained his feet as Bane recovered his self-control.

            With an acerbic, mocking, almost joyful tone in his voice, Bane spread his damp arms out to either side like the wings of a condor, and said, “I _am_ the League of Shadows, and I am here to fulfill Rā’s al Ghūl’s destiny!”

            As Bane expected, this pronouncement inflamed Batman. After all, he would have thought he had destroyed not only the League years ago when he killed Rā’s but also Rā’s’ plans for Gotham’s destruction. Yet another failure on his part.

            Batman flew at him with a savage cry of outrage. His impetus and weight slammed Bane to the floor, Batman atop him. Again Bane allowed his enemy to strike him, five times against the unyielding mask as he lay on his back, letting the man tire himself further. Then with the speed of a viper, he smashed his forehead into the cowl and dismissively threw the stunned Batman several feet from him once again.

            “You fight like a younger man,” Bane allowed as he stood, “nothing held back.” Unconcerned, he turned from Batman’s gasping form and shuffled a couple of feet away before looking at him again. “Admirable, but mistaken.”

            There was little left in Batman, but he rallied enough of his mental faculties to activate an EMP via his utility belt. The lights in the atrium died. Bane smiled wryly, imagining Barsad’s panic at this unexpected occurrence, his commander hidden from him. Bane, however, was unaffected.

            “Oh,” he crooned to his enemy, “you think darkness is your ally.” He began to move deliberately but leisurely, no fear, searching for the darker shadow that would reveal Batman’s location. “You merely adopted the dark. I was born in it, molded by it. I didn’t see the light till I was already a man, and by then it was nothing to me but _blinding_.”

            With the last word, he wheeled toward the stanchion which Batman had assumed masked his presence, blending together into one black structure. Bane grabbed him by the neck with one hand, drew him away from the stanchion, smashed a blow that sent him tumbling again into the sloped side of the aqueduct. This time Batman did not arise. The atrium lighting flashed back on, glimmering upon him where he lay against the wet metal, desperately panting, helpless.

            Bane advanced, growling out, “Shadows betray you, because they belong to me!”

            Then he was upon his enemy, sledging right-handed blows, the most powerful ones yet, again and again into the graphite cowl until at last it cracked and opened around Batman’s left eye. Still the man lay unmoving, spent, now concussed as well. With no fear of counterattack, Bane moved several steps away, more toward the middle of the atrium where he could clearly be seen by his men from above.

            The flippancy had returned to his tone as he addressed his dazed enemy, “I will show you where I have made my home whilst preparing to bring justice.”

            As Batman’s weary gaze lifted, Bane gestured to Riley on the lower catwalk, who tossed him a small detonator.

            “Then,” Bane announced to his opponent, “I will break you.”

            He pressed the detonator. In the blink of an eye, charges went off, sparks flying upward in lines all around the atrium, racing to the ceiling where the strongest explosives had been rigged, where the cement was the thickest…for good reason. With the roar of thunder, the ceiling collapsed in a huge fall of cement, girders and rebar, crashing down not far from Bane who had not moved an inch. Amidst the rubble sat a desert camouflage-painted Tumbler, sitting there in surrender to torment the staring Batman.

            “Your precious armory!” Bane crowed in triumph. “Gratefully accepted. We will need it.”

            Above him, his men were already climbing up lines into the gaping hole that had gained them access to Wayne Enterprises’s Applied Sciences. Batman would now realize Bane had ironically made his home directly beneath Bruce Wayne’s empire, Wayne Tower and the many machines of war that lay in the massive warehouse of Applied Sciences. No longer tools for Batman’s protection of Gotham but instead the League’s means of destroying it.

            The desperate reality of the situation breathed the last vestiges of life into Batman, and he groaned his way to his feet, haltingly approached Bane.

            “Ah, yes,” Bane mocked. “I was wondering what would break first…”

            He tossed away the detonator just before Batman lunged at him with a roar. But Bane’s casual stance had been a ruse; he had been ready for his enemy. He easily ducked Batman’s wild, wet swing and drove a breath-robbing right into his gut, doubling the man into a vulnerable position. With a huge left-handed swat to the head, he drove Batman to the floor. There the man floundered about in a vain attempt to regain his feet.

            “…your spirit…” Bane continued his taunt, latching both hands onto the batsuit and lifting the groaning Batman above his head like a prize, “…or your body.”

            Then Bane dropped him, directly onto his raised knee. A sickening crack sounded from Batman’s spine, and he tumbled to the floor. There he lay unconscious, as unmoving as Temujin’s dead body outside the Shanghai warehouse where Bruce Wayne had been arrested.

            Bane bent over Batman and removed the broken cowl, exposing the defeated visage of Bruce Wayne, prince of Gotham no more; he had been deposed by a new ruler. Straightening with his broken graphite trophy, Bane scornfully studied it. Then he walked away from the wreckage of his enemy, moving with fluid, triumphant strides; swagger, as Barsad always called such a gait.

            Thinking of Talia and Temujin, Bane dropped the cowl as if it were nothing more than a piece of garbage.


	50. Chapter 50

            From deep inside the prison shaft, Bane watched Bruce Wayne being lowered like a dead deer into the gaping maw of the pit. Silhouetted against the distant sky, Wayne’s body hung limp; Bane had ordered him sedated for the flight from Gotham to Jaipur and the journey by truck to the prison. Perhaps the sedation had been unnecessary since the agony of Wayne’s injuries possibly was sufficient to keep him insensible, but Bane wanted his enemy to know nothing of this place’s location, including the length of the journey to arrive here. And even more important, he wanted Wayne’s first waking moment to be in his cell, with the man who broke him looming over him.

            Bane, of course, knew the physical torture Wayne experienced during the desert passage. After all, he had made a similar passage by truck with a broken back after falling during his last escape attempt. Easily he recalled how each bump the vehicle encountered filled him with unbearable, nauseating pain, the kind that had made him want to scream, though he had managed to deny the display. Yet his own familiarity with Wayne’s torment did not generate one ounce of sympathy from him.

            He stood at the top of the stepwell, four armed men with him, watching Wayne’s upside down descent, facilitated via rope by Bane’s men at the mouth of the shaft. The single hemp line served as a second reminder of Bane’s last fall. He could still feel the safety rope around his torso slamming him to a halt before the sabotaged line snapped, followed by the horrifying plummet to the bottom of the stepwell. Nothing more did he remember from that trauma until he awoke in his cell, his back on fire, every nerve screaming, every muscle in spasm. Then the worried voice of Melisande in the next cell, trying to console Talia who was sobbing and begging him to awaken.

            Bane shook himself from the memory, surprised by its strength after all this time. He focused on Talia back in Gotham and how what he was now doing would protect her from the taint of Bruce Wayne. It was worth the discomfort caused by returning here. In anticipation of such unpleasantness, he had allowed a slight increase in the dosage of his inhalant. Not enough to impede him physically but enough to give his psyche a subtle calming effect, a balm that would see him through this short visit.

            Prisoners had come from the corridors to gawk, all of them staying well clear of Bane and his menacing cohort. Most stood silently watching Wayne, probably wondering what made this inmate so important that the Masked Man of legend was here himself to usher in the new arrival.

            When Wayne reached the top of the _bawdi_ , Bane gestured toward the open door of a cell across the shaft, one that looked out upon the stepwell, and ordered two of his men to take him there. Bane had considered throwing the current inhabitant out of his former cell and putting Wayne there, but he did not want the man living in the space where Talia had dwelt.

            Wayne moaned through the sedation when the men picked him up. Bane watched them carry him around the cylindrical shaft, then turned to look for the old man whom he had spotted sitting in the stepwell when he had first arrived. The prisoner had not moved, had not reacted to the murmuring discussion of the other inmates or the limited conversation between Bane and his men. Was he deaf by now? Bane wondered. How old was he? Surely well into his seventies.

            Dr. Assad sat on the highest level of the stepwell, undoubtedly hoping some of the warmth from far above might find him. Warmth, however, was a relative term down here. His clothes, while ragged, had less wear than the other prisoners. Talia’s kindness toward the doctor had continued over the years, allowing the man more comforts than the others, though Bane ensured that nothing given him was too lavish. What remained of his hair had turned gray, matching the stubble on his cheeks. The milky film over his eyes that Bane had first seen years ago was thicker now. What little light lived here in the pit was forever sealed off from Assad.

            The old man cocked his head as Bane and his men approached. Not deaf after all. When he spoke, it was obvious he had recognized Bane’s mechanical-sounding voice echoing in the stepwell, and if he had not, then he now could hear the rasp of Bane’s breathing apparatus close by.

            “What brings the Masked Man back to the pit?” Assad’s hoarse voice was dull. Unlike last time, it seemed he no longer entertained any hope that his former friend might have pity on him and remove him from this hell.

            “I have brought a new prisoner.”

            Assad shrugged beneath the blanket draped over his shoulders. “Many prisoners have come over the years since you took control of this place; I’ve never known you to accompany any of them.”

            There was a new element to Assad’s tone, something close to contempt or sarcasm. Had he at last come to hate the man who had left him here to die? Bane did not care. Like Wayne, Assad deserved to be here, paying for his sins against Talia.

            Assad continued, “What makes this one so special?”

            “He is the man who murdered Talia’s father.”

            Assad’s furry eyebrows arose, and when he spoke again, his voice was softer, almost tender. “Talia… How is she?”

            “I did not come here for a social call, Doctor.”

            “Yet you are here talking to me.”

            “I want your recommendation.”

            “For what?”

            “I wish to employ one of the prisoners.”

            “Employ? As in compensate?”

            “Yes. I need a man who will stick to task, preferably an older man. An ex-soldier perhaps.”

            “Someone who knows how to follow orders,” Assad nodded his cynical understanding. “I will be better able to recommend someone if you tell me what the task will be.”

            Bane crossed his arms, the leather of his Belstaff jacket gently creaking; the jacket kept away the worst of the prison’s chill. “He will be a caretaker for the new prisoner.”

            “Caretaker? Is the man injured?”

            “Yes.”

            “Then he requires medical attention?”

            “What _I_ require is for him to remain alive, at least until he is given permission to die, as he would no doubt prefer. I am not concerned with his comfort. He deserves the suffering that he endures. You will not help him in any way, medically or otherwise.”

            Assad waved at his own eyes. “As you know, I am no longer a capable physician. There is another now who tends to those who need care.”

            “Yes, and he will be forbidden from ministering to the new prisoner. I will be speaking to him as well. But just because you lack vision and youth, I would not put it past you to try to aid this man. That will not happen. Not if you wish to honor Talia’s desire, her need, to know this man is suffering for what he has done to her family. And if you want her benevolence toward you to continue.”

            The corners of Assad’s downturned mouth sank even lower as he frowned.

            “And if you truly care for her and wish to finish your days in peace, you will continue to abide by her wishes—and mine—that you never speak of her to anyone here, especially this new prisoner. To do so could jeopardize her safety, her very life, and thus your own. And if you put her in such a position, I will ensure that when your life is ended, it will be in a most unpleasant way. Do you understand?”

            His frown deepening, Assad nodded.

            “Now,” Bane gripped the lapels of his jacket, “give me a name and where to find him.”

            Assad considered for a moment, and Bane could see him mentally flipping through a list of the prison population. At last he nodded as if to himself and said, “Josip Novak. Do you remember the cell where Aaron Spencer used to live?”

            Easily Bane remembered the cell of the Canadian inmate with whom he had once traded for antibiotics to treat Talia when she had been gravely ill. He led two of his men there now, traveling down a corridor on the same level as Bruce Wayne’s cell. Darkness nearly swallowed them but was kept at bay by guttering oil lamps affixed to the walls at wide intervals. They passed cell after cell, some empty, some occupied by men who slept, others containing inmates who stared in fear and mistrust at the unusual trio marching past.

            They found Novak napping on his charpoy. He was gray-haired and craggy, easily in his sixties, and when he opened his brown eyes, they drooped with apathy, even when faced with a stranger in a bizarre mask, flanked by armed men.

            “Josip Novak?” Bane asked.

            Without sitting up, Novak spoke in a gravelly voice, “That depends.”

            Bane did not attempt to open the cell. Surely it was locked anyway. He watched Novak sit up, an inmate with more flesh on his bones than most in this place. This told Bane that here was a man of cunning, a man who knew how to acquire extra food for himself.

            “Dr. Assad recommended you to me.”

            “For what?” He eyed Bane through the bars. “I know who you are; I’ve heard the stories of the man who wears the mask, who escaped from here.”

            Bane could not place Novak’s accent. Something Eastern European. A Croat perhaps. “I have just delivered a new prisoner. He is physically disabled. I need a caretaker for him.”

            “I am no physician,” Novak grumbled, getting to his feet but staying well out of Bane’s reach.

            “You only need to ensure that he continues to live. He requires no medical care from you.”

            “I assume if I refuse then you will kill me.”

            “There is that. However, I am prepared to pay you well for your services. And, rest assured, I will know if you are not upholding your duties.”

            Novak gave a small, coughed laugh.

            “Come, and I will show you where I have placed him.”

            Novak’s attention turned to the gunmen.

            “We will not harm you,” Bane growled. “Unless, of course, you do not come out of that cell.”

            With a sideways glance, Novak turned to retrieve his blanket and wrapped it around him, then slipped into his shoes before hesitantly unlocking his door. Bane started back toward the shaft, Novak falling in behind him, the gunmen bringing up the rear, always vigilant. Though Bane had the utmost confidence in his security detail, he always was aware of Barsad’s absence. It often left him chilled, as if he had forgotten to wear a coat.

            Perhaps fear kept Novak from speaking again; that or his practiced apathy. Bane could tell the man had no hope left in him. Assad had chosen well. Here was a man whose only concerns were with maintaining what would be considered a comfortable existence down here, and what better way to do that then to acquire a benefactor on the outside, especially when that benefactor owned the prison?

            Bane’s men stood watch outside Bruce Wayne’s cell, the door closed, the broken, unconscious man inside, lying on a bare charpoy. Novak studied Wayne through the bars.

            “American?” he asked.

            “Yes.”

            Novak’s gaze flicked toward an old television set that had been installed high upon one of the stone walls outside Wayne’s cell. Satirically the Croat said, “I figured as much, loving television as they do.”

            “The television is here for one purpose,” Bane said. “And tomorrow at 1 p.m. Eastern time, you will turn it on and ensure that our guest is awake to watch it.”

            Novak arched a wily eyebrow. “Any sports stations? I’ve missed football. Or soccer, as you might call it.”

            Bane ignored Novak’s levity. “One station. GCN. You will turn it on and leave it on.”

            “Until?”

            “Until there is nothing more for him to watch.”

            “So the world is ending?”

            A cold smile eased Bane’s expression as he stared at Wayne. “For him, yes.”

            “Who is he?”

            Bane knew it was pointless to deny Wayne’s identity. After all, the billionaire would spew that information first thing, in the hopes that it would somehow gain him privilege or rescue from the men who resupplied the prison.

            “His name is Bruce Wayne. Are you familiar with the name?”

            “I have been here for over twenty years. I know nothing of those beyond this hole. Those I knew before, I have forgotten.”

            “He will lie to you of his wealth in the hopes of bribing you, but rest assured he is penniless; I have made it so.”

            Novak nodded absently, but Bane could see the wheels turning in the older man’s eyes. Curious about Wayne, but not overly so.

            “You are to ensure that he remains alive by any means necessary. Once the television shows him his final defeat, then your task is over. Whether he lives or dies after that is of no consequence.”

            Novak glanced at the television. “And how long will this…task take?”

            “Five months. You will be paid at that time, if you have succeeded in keeping him alive.”

            “Is he ill?”

            “No. He has suffered an injury. But it is not his body that will try to kill him; it will be his mind. That, too, has been damaged, and will be damaged further soon.” Bane waited until Novak turned to him again. “You will keep him alive.”

            Novak’s gaze drifted across the mask. He did not look pleased but neither did he appear particularly concerned about his situation. “I will keep him alive,” he assured with a slight nod.

#

            After dismissing Novak, Bane entered Wayne’s cell. He sat on the edge of the charpoy and watched consciousness slowly return to his victim. Wayne’s sedative had worn off, and thus the agony had increased, dragging him back to reality.

            The charpoy creaked beneath their combined weight, the feel of it reminding Bane of the infinite nights he had slept upon the one in his cell. First as a boy snuggled into his mother’s warmth, his body small enough to allow them both to fit on the cot, then as a teenager after his mother’s death and Melisande’s arrival, then as a young man following Melisande’s murder, growing, always growing until his limbs hung over the edges. The addition of Talia in his bed after Melisande’s death had further challenged the simple piece of furniture, and Bane often had to repair the fraying, strained webbing.

            Wayne had not been cleaned up since the fight in the sewers. His bruised and swollen face, that handsome face Talia had kissed, was marred by dried blood. The cut above his left eye where Bane had broken the cowl was deep enough to eventually leave a scar. Of course Wayne had been stripped of his batsuit, and now all he wore was a dirty t-shirt and the coarse, gray pants most of the prisoners wore, his feet bare. No more thousand-dollar, tailored business suits. One of the world’s most powerful men now figuratively and literally brought down to the same level as a common criminal.

            The prison had settled into relative quiet, save for the screams of a man down one of the corridors. Any number of horrors could be taking place. Bane remembered countless variations when prisoners would prey on one another. His mother used to cover his ears with her hands and draw him close on their cot, often singing privately to him in a vain attempt to block out the screams, curses, and shouts that would make her cringe and tremble.

            Wayne’s eyes moved beneath their lids, as if he were dreaming of something that agitated him. Bane leaned close, waited. Wayne gave a small outcry, waking himself. Slowly he focused on Bane, stared for a moment, as if disbelieving his sight, then he closed his eyes perhaps in an effort to erase the image.

            “Why…” Wayne began near a whisper then had to pause to rally more strength, “…why didn’t you just…kill me?”

            “You don’t fear death,” Bane said, his voice especially raspy as it was whenever he spoke softly, “you welcome it. Your punishment must be more severe.”

            “You’re a torturer?”

            “Yes. But not of your body.” His unblinking gaze shifted a moment. “Of your soul.”

            Wayne opened his eyes now, wider, taking in his immediate surroundings. “Where am I?”

            “Home,” Bane fabricated a light, almost proud tone as he stood, “where I learned the truth about despair…as will you.” He moved to the partially open door of the cell and stood there with hands on his hips, looking out upon what he now owned. “There’s a reason why this prison is the worst hell on earth: hope.” Bane’s gaze traveled up the looming shaft, up to the bright desert light. “Every man who has rotted here over the centuries has looked up to the light and imagined climbing to freedom. So easy, so simple.” He turned back to the bed. “And like shipwrecked men turning to sea water from uncontrollable thirst,” he sat on the charpoy again, “many have died trying. I learned here there can be no true despair without hope.” His focus returned to the shaft. “So, as I terrorize Gotham, I will feed its people hope to poison their souls. I will let them believe that they can survive so you can watch them clambering over each other to stay in the sun.”

            With disdain, Bane returned his attention to Wayne’s disbelieving face then looked up at the television. “You can watch me torture an entire city. And then, when you have truly understood the depth of your failure, we will fulfill Rā’s al Ghūl’s destiny.” His unrelenting gaze returned to Wayne’s tortured face. “We will destroy Gotham. And then, when it is done, and Gotham is…ashes…” he nodded in satisfaction to himself, imagining the fire as he stared out at the shaft’s light before turning back to his victim for the last time, “then you have my permission to die.”

            To aid himself in standing, he put his hand to Wayne’s chest and pressed against him. Wayne howled in agony, writhing on the cot. Bane shuffled out of the cell and never looked back.

#

            Talia’s phone call came as no surprise. Bane’s jet had just reached cruising altitude when he answered the phone and heard the indignation in her voice.

            “Where are you?”

            “I am flying back to Gotham.”

            “From where?”

            “India.”

            “And why would you make such a journey at this critical time? I am meeting with the board tomorrow.”

            “Finn was instructed to tell you that I had left, and that I would be back in time for the board meeting.”

            “Yes, but he couldn’t tell me where you were or why you had left at such an inopportune time. Barsad knows, of course, but he wouldn’t tell me. Orders from you, of course.”

            This brought a small smile to Bane.

            “I’m assuming it’s safe to say your disappearance at the same time as Bruce Wayne’s is not a coincidence. What have you done, Haris?”

            “What is necessary.”

            “Tell me.”

            “I have removed our enemy from the city.”

            “Without my orders. To where have you removed him? The pit?”

            “Yes. He will live long enough to witness the fire.”

            “We never agreed upon such action.”

            “Indeed we did not. But I believed him to be too much of a threat to allow him to remain in the city during our operation.”

            “Penniless and without his toys?”

            “Never underestimate your enemies. Your father and I both taught you that. Often the wounded ones are the most dangerous.”

            “Why didn’t you discuss this with me?”

            “Because I knew your emotions would cloud your judgment.”

            “And yours have not?”

            “We both hate the man, true enough. But I knew your plans were to keep him in the city and that you would not agree to removing him, even though it is the only viable course of action short of killing him. You wanted your revenge to be personal. I understand that, and I’m sorry that you may feel deprived of that privilege for your father’s sake. But we must remove ourselves from the equation and see the larger picture of your father’s vision for Gotham. Wayne was not to be trusted, no matter what tactics you may have used in an attempt to gain his trust.”

            “And what do you know of my tactics, Haris?”

            Bane faltered only briefly. “They were clear enough; I know Miranda Tate. But you will still reap the same results, have no fear. The man will remember his night with you always, I have no doubt. The memory will torment him till the end of his days. And when his city burns, he will think that he failed not only Gotham, but his lover as well, the only woman who could make him forget his precious Rachel Dawes.”

            “I wanted him here to witness his failure, to know at last my true identity, my vengeance. But you’ve robbed me of that. And you had no authority—”

            Anger rose in Bane, indignation, and he thought of her as a child—his child—in the pit. “No authority? In the League, I may be subordinate to you, but when it comes to you personally, we both know I will always protect you, even if you do not seek such protection. I will always honor my promise to your mother, even if that means defying the League itself. You know this.”

            “You can say this yet accuse _me_ of being blinded by emotion? You may hide behind your position in the League, Haris, but I know what motivates you to ‘protect’ me, and it’s more than your promise to my mother.”

            Bane forced his anger to cool. He did not want to fight with her, especially now with the League’s plans at stake and with their days together numbered. “Of course, _habibati_. I cannot deny my love for you. And I will admit the thought of you in the arms of our enemy turns my stomach, to say the least, but regardless of those personal feelings, I believe my actions are justified from an operational standpoint. He should not be allowed anywhere near Gotham during our revolution.”

            Talia fell silent for a moment, and when she spoke again, she was calmer. “How did you get him away?”

            “He had the audacity to seek me out through Ms. Kyle.”

            “And what did you do to him?”

            Bane tried to decipher the motivation behind her question. Did she have some hidden concern for her lover’s well-being? Or was she hoping her protector had punished the billionaire severely?

            “He attacked me, and I broke him. Even if he conjures the will to climb the shaft, his body is too damaged to allow such an endeavor. Besides,” he allowed himself a small, proud smile, “only one has ever had the strength and skill to climb that shaft.”

            Talia said nothing for a long moment, but when she did speak, she kept her disapproval apparent. “You have defied me twice, Haris. This is not what our brothers should see in my second-in-command.”

            “Only a handful know that he has been removed from the city. The others who witnessed the fight know only that I have crushed the man. That is what they will remember, _habibati_. Few beyond Yemi and Barsad know that you had other plans for our enemy. You will see that I have caused no damage to your image as their leader. I would never do that.”

            “There are difficult times ahead, Haris. You will promise me that you’ll make no deviations from our plans again without my consent.”

            “As you wish.”

            Talia’s faint sigh and prolonged silence told Bane that she was trying to determine if she could believe him.

            Finally, she spoke in a tired, terse voice, “I will see you tomorrow.”

            “Yes. Tomorrow…when the fire shall truly rise.”


	51. Chapter 51

            When Bane returned to the Gotham command post, his ears were assaulted by a wide variety of noises. The atrium, from top to bottom, was a hive of activity, an abrupt transformation from the secluded haven Bane had left a short while ago. Dozens of men were busy modifying and preparing weapons from Bruce Wayne’s armory. Camouflaged Tumblers and arms of every kind, large and small. Boxes and boxes of ammunition and other ordnance cluttered the corridors. The air was electric with anticipation of the day to come. Commanders barked at any man whom they thought was not working fast enough or diligently enough to meet today’s operational deadline.

            Barsad was in the command post, conferring with several of his men. They all turned when their commander arrived, but their faces remained impassive, dutiful, except for Barsad’s, which revealed a definite measure of relief.

            “Get to it,” Barsad said to the men, dismissing them.

            They filed past Bane who paid them no heed. He did his best to hide his fatigue as he moved to his bed and dropped his small pack there.

            “We have two hours,” Barsad said. “You should get some rest.”

            “I slept on the plane.” Bane pulled Melisande’s blanket from the pack and lovingly spread it on the cot. “I could use some tea, though.”

            To afford as much privacy as possible, Barsad waved away the security detail that had escorted Bane here from the airfield. Then, as Bane unpacked, Barsad set a kettle to boil.

            Settling in the desk chair, Barsad said, “You told her.”

            “Yes.” Bane sat on the bed, allowed himself these minutes of respite while the tea was prepared.

            “What did she say?”

            “Everything you imagine she would.” He gave his friend a sly look.

            Barsad grinned and shook his head in disbelief at Bane’s light attitude. “And Wayne? How did he like his new digs?”

            “I’m sure he feels they are a bit below his standards.”

            “I’m sure.” Barsad’s attention drifted to Melisande’s blanket. “Too bad you didn’t have time to check on Maysam. Such a shame to be so close to her but not see her…one last time.”

            Bane studied him, his amusement drifting away, the background noise fading. “There is still time for you to go, brother. I would prefer you not die here with us. I’m sure Maysam feels the same way.”

            “Well,” Barsad sighed with a dismissive smile, “we’ve already had that discussion, haven’t we?” He reached for the pack of cigarettes in his pocket, remembered himself, left them there. “While you were gone, Selina Kyle was arrested.”

            Bane scowled. “How did this happen?”

            “She eluded our surveillance and went to the airport where the police caught up with her first. Seems she was leaving town. They charged her with kidnapping Congressman Gilly, among other things, of course. She’s in Blackgate now.”

            “I doubt she will be foolish enough to tell the police what little she knows of us.”

            “After watching you beat Batman to a pulp in front of her, I think she’s been sufficiently convinced not to mess with you in any way.”

            The kettle had begun its heralding screech. Barsad removed it from the burner and poured a small amount of water into Maysam’s gifted teapot to warm it, then returned the kettle to the burner. Draining the water from the teapot, Barsad then spooned in the tea leaves. Once the water was again boiling in the kettle, he poured it into the pot, then covered it with a white and blue tea cozy that Bane had crocheted. Then he returned to his chair.

            “Well,” Bane said, “soon enough our Cat will be free of her cage. It is just as well she is there for now, if she was indeed trying to escape us. No doubt her services will be required again once we take over and her escape routes are blocked.” He studied his friend, saw something on his face, something in the way he avoided his gaze. Bane smiled. “You have slept with her?”

            Barsad looked up in surprise.

            Bane chuckled.

            “After you left the other night,” Barsad stammered, “I thought it best to check on her. You know, make sure she understood that she wasn’t to share anything she’d witnessed.”

            “And,” Bane raised a teasing eyebrow, “did you…persuade her, brother? Or was it your lovemaking that drove her to attempt flight?”

            Barsad allowed a small grin. “I think I _persuaded_ her pretty good.”

            “A willing partner?” More of a teasing question than a serious one, for the men of the League were no rapists; if there was one crime Bane loathed above all others, it was rape because of Melisande.

            Barsad shrugged. “Ms. Kyle realized the value of staying in our good graces.”

            “Well, you’ll have five more months to _persuade_ her some more. Perhaps in the cold months ahead, she will be more welcoming of your warmth and blithe personality.” He indulged in one last grin as he patted Melisande’s blanket. “I will not share your secret with Maysam. She will think you have lowered your standards far too much.”

            “Very funny. Sounds to me like the jetlag’s already affecting you.”

            Bane removed his jacket. “Enough talk of your amorous activities while I was gone. Let us speak instead of the rising fire.” With that, he reached for the nearby poker so he could tend to the fire in the brazier. “Tell me how the operation progresses. Is everything in order?”

            “Yes, the charges are set, and our men are in place inside Wayne Tower. We won’t have any trouble gaining access to the boardroom.”

            “Have you spoken with Talia today?”

            “Yes, first thing this morning.”

            “How is she?”

            “Still pissed off at you, of course, but she’s also focused on what she has to do today.” Barsad considered him closely, and Bane could not help but look away. “It’s not gonna be easy for you, seeing her today after so long, especially after what just happened.”

            “There are many things in life that are not easy. This will be but one of them. There is no reason for you to fear that either of us will compromise the operation.”

            “I’m not afraid of that.”

            “Then why mention it?” Bane left the brazier, the fire sufficiently flaring, and returned to his cot.

            Barsad frowned. “Because I know you’re human, brother, though you try to make others believe—hell, even yourself—that you’re something else, something robotic and unfeeling. I know there’s shit you won’t tell even me when it comes to you and Talia. Don’t get me wrong; I respect your privacy, but sometimes it’s best not to bury everything, especially from yourself.”

            “No one understands my…feelings for Talia better than I, I assure you, John.”

            “Feelings? See what I mean? You can’t even say it to yourself, you big, damned lump.”

            Bane scowled. “What is it you are looking for from me?”

            “You’ve made this suicide pact, the two of you, but there’s all this shit between you, because of LePage and Wayne. I believe you’ll think clearer over these next months if you aren’t sitting here brooding about the rift between you.”

            “The rift is my fault, so it is my burden to bear, but one that will not interfere with our work. My life’s purpose has been to protect Talia, as you know. I have no regrets for what I have done; speaking candidly again with Talia will not change anything. I would do the same all over again, and she—again—would disagree with my actions. And you are mistaken to think it is our differences alone that trouble me.” He clasped his hands, his forearms resting on his thighs. “I have given it much thought on the flight back to Gotham.”

            “Given thought to what?” Barsad scowled. “I already don’t like the sound of this.”

            “To Talia and this suicide pact, as you called it. As you know, I tried to talk her out of this at the outset. But there may still be an opportunity, toward the end, for her life to be spared.”

            “What’re you talking about? She’s not gonna listen to anything you say about it.”

            “No, she won’t. But that is where you come in.”

            Barsad raised his palms toward Bane. “Oh, hell, no. I’m not gonna be able to convince her any more than you.”

            “No, you will not. But if an opportunity arises, you will safeguard her—and yourself—out of the city, against her will if necessary, which no doubt it will be.”

            “She’s not gonna give up that detonator.”

            “Then you will acquire it by force and give it to one of our brothers or to myself.”

            “I already told you—I’m going down with the captain and the ship. That’s my duty.”

            “Loyalty and dedication have always been admirable traits of yours, John, and Talia will need those qualities from you once I am gone. Talia’s protection will be your priority, your only priority. She is too young to die, too valuable to the League and to her grandmother.” Bane paused, stared at his hands. “Maysam says I am like a son to her. Well, what sort of son would I be if I let her only grandchild, the only thing left of her daughter, be taken so senselessly and so young. Talia deserves happiness, and she will find that after Gotham is destroyed and Wayne is dead. You will see to her happiness and her protection.”

            Barsad shook his head as if in disgust and stared at Bane. “You’re off your nut, you know?”

            “You will vow to me, brother, that if an opportunity arises before the end that you will do everything in your power to remove her from this evil place. If I have your word, the five months that lie before me will be endured more easily. It is her premature death, the fact that I cannot keep her from it that troubles me far more than her current enmity toward me.”

            “Why the hell don’t _you_ get her out of the city?”

            “Because I am needed here. I am the figurehead in this. I am closer to the day-to-day operations than Talia; her role requires such distance. I am the one who should press that button. As I’ve said before, I am the reason behind this headlong mission of hers to avenge her father.”

            Barsad dropped his gaze in capitulation and shook his head. “You’re so full of shit.”

            “Then why do you follow me?”

            “Because I’m a soldier.” Barsad lifted his head, his hooded eyes locking with Bane’s. “And because you’re my brother. After seeing my own brother die and living without him all those years, living with the guilt and second guesses, it’s not something I want to do again.”

            “There is no reason for guilt should you survive this, Barsad. If you survive, it will be because I’ve asked you to, as my brother, as Talia’s brother, to protect her. That is a far nobler task than dying here with me. This city is not worth your blood.”

            Barsad blew out a frustrated sigh and got up to pour the tea.

            “Can I count on you, John? If there is a chance to get Talia out of the city, you will take it?”

            Barsad stepped over to hand him a steaming cup. “Don’t ask me to do this.”

            “I already have.”

            Barsad’s jaw twitched with tension as he turned back to retrieve his own cup. Then he stared at Bane. At last he grumbled, “I’ll do it… _if_ the opportunity arises. But until then I’ll be at my post, protecting your God damn flank, as always.”

            Bane bowed in acknowledgement. “Thank you, John. I will rest easier knowing that.”

            “Humph,” Barsad scoffed. “Somehow I doubt that.” He glanced down at his tea. “Think I’ll drink this elsewhere.”

            Bane said nothing, allowed his friend to leave the command post. Then he reached for his field kit and the injectable morphine there, so he could remove his mask and enjoy his tea.

#

            When Bane stepped into the Wayne Tower boardroom, all of the members were there except Miranda Tate and Lucius Fox. Expensive suits drinking coffee, some standing, some sitting at the elongated, glass table. Daylight reflected through the floor to ceiling windows in the long, austere room, magnified by the mirrored ceiling, making the environment far too bright for Bane’s eyes. Fortunately this side of the building did not face the sun.

            When the board members saw the hulking mercenary and his armed escort, gasps and outcries filled the space. Those seated at the table jumped to their feet. Instinctively, like sheep before wolves, they all backed away or bunched together.

            “No brash moves, gentlemen,” Bane calmly said, moving toward the head of the table, his boots treading where only pricy shoes had previously tread. “My men have plenty of firepower, as you can see, and plenty of bullets to go around. I prefer this to be a bloodless meeting, as I’m sure you do as well.”

            “What is the meaning of this?” one gray-haired older man demanded.

            Bane recognized Douglas Fredericks, one of the most senior members, a dear friend of Thomas and Martha Wayne, and a champion of Bruce Wayne. Fredericks stood straight-backed and defiant, a brave man.

            “Please,” Bane gestured to them all, sarcastic gentility dripping from his tone, “take your seats. Although this will not take long, you might as well be comfortable.” He glanced at his watch. Talia would have purposefully timed her arrival with Fox to bring them here after all of the others had already gathered. Any minute now…

            Two of his men stood near the entrance that led to the small elevator lobby, off to one side so when Fox stepped from the elevator he would not see the mercs until he was in the room. Barsad and the others confiscated everyone’s electronic devices. Bane watched, hands behind his back. His razor sharp gaze sliced from pale face to pale face as he thought of John Daggett once sitting at that table, his body now rotting in a Gotham dumpster where it belonged, left there as a message to Gotham PD, one they would understand too late. If Bane had his way, everyone at this table would be dead with Daggett. All in good time, he reminded himself.

            He heard the chime of the elevator, followed by the deep tones of Fox’s voice. Bane gripped the lapels of his jacket, drew in a sustaining, quiet breath. Then he heard Talia’s voice in response. No, he berated himself, Miranda Tate. Bane had told himself to think of Talia in that way when they faced one another, had meditated upon it, visualized it as a way to help control his own emotions, as Barsad had warned. But when she strode confidently into the room in high heel shoes that tapped rhythmically upon the floor, wearing a long brown coat and a dark print scarf over her black blouse and short skirt, it took every ounce of Bane’s training to show no reaction.

            Their eyes met across the room. Bane did not even blink. Talia skillfully portrayed nothing but horrified shock, an expression he had once witnessed in genuine reality when he had been rescued from the pit and she had first seen the bloody swathes of bandages covering his face, a face forever lost to her.

            “So good of you to join us, chair, president,” he said glibly, his voice echoing in the room. “All I need now is one more ordinary board member. Mr. Fox, would you like to nominate?”

            “No,” Douglas Fredericks’s gravelly voice drew everyone’s attention as the older man stood. “I will volunteer.”

            Bane started toward the door, toward Talia, but he would not allow himself to look at her again. As he drew closer, he smelled her perfume, felt her presence as clearly as if he held her in his arms.

            “Where are you taking us?” Fox demanded.

            Bane said nothing more and moved past Fox and Talia on his way to the elevator.


	52. Chapter 52

            With Barsad bringing up the rear, Bane led his three prisoners to his home—the underground atrium—and past the dozens of men working there, preparing the spoils of Bruce Wayne’s armory for the liberation of Gotham. The sights and sounds would fill Lucius Fox with despair and a horrible feeling of culpability, having helped design and create many of the weapons that would now be used against wealthy men like himself.

            Beneath the mask, Bane smiled as he imagined Talia’s own satisfaction and pride over the physical manifestation of his efforts. This, of course, was also the first time she saw where he had been living. Did it make her think of the pit, of their humble, anonymous beginnings, a time when all they had was each other?

            Farther on through the tunnels at a leisurely pace. Perhaps his two male prisoners were wondering if they would ever see the sun again, if they would die down here. The dimness would not frighten Talia. Indeed, was there anything she feared? No, he decided, nothing but the memories of her mother’s brutal death. The terrible event still haunted her, he knew; she had told him as much, and he had witnessed it a couple of times when they had slept together. In one horrible way, that tragedy had benefited her, for she knew there was nothing she would face in life that could possibly be worse to endure than that day. Bane felt the same way. Yet another thing that they shared, that defined and bonded them.

            He glanced at his watch. Soon his men would leak the news of the board members’ kidnapping to the authorities, and Deputy Commissioner Foley would realize his blunder in not previously taking Bane’s presence in his city seriously. To make up for that mistake, Foley would overcompensate by throwing every man available into the sewers to seek him out. Then Bane would spring the trap.

            At last they arrived at the excavated tunnel that would allow them access to the fusion reactor’s bunker beneath the river. A large number of his men were already there, including the demolition team, the tactical team that would secure the bunker and transport the reactor, and the men who were guarding Dr. Leonid Pavel. The Russian scientist, looking thinner and even more haggard than the last time Bane had seen him, sat nearby on the mechanized dolly that would soon carry the reactor. Pavel stared with desolate, hollow eyes at his captor. Bane strutted past without acknowledging him, fingers twitching in anticipation of seeing the reactor at long last. Barsad jogged forward to take command of the demolition. Behind Bane, Talia’s high heels clicked on the pavement. Both joy and satisfaction filled him to know that she would be here with him to witness their triumph.

            Bane halted several yards from the excavation, gripped the collar of his protective vest through the opening of his jacket. All eyes were upon him, awaiting his command. He simply nodded.

            “Fire in the hole!” Barsad cried, and everyone cringed in anticipation of the explosion…everyone but Bane. He stood without flinching, eyes straight ahead, making sure his body was directly between Talia and the explosives. The C4 rocked the tunnel, showering everyone with small bits of dirt and debris, sending roiling dust outward. Bane smiled again. The sound would have charged through the tunnel network and been heard by the police who would be entering the sewer system by now. It would intrigue them, heighten their fear, their need for urgency. They would be running headlong down here now.

            Bane marched past his dusty men and climbed over the rubble into the bunker. The concrete chamber was spacious, with a low ceiling, and in the middle, suspended within supporting framework, was the metallic fusion reactor, like a black pearl inside a glistening oyster. Beneath it was a shallow channel of river water. The entire chamber, Bane knew, could be flooded in an instant. Behind him, his men and prisoners followed closely. Soon mercs were crawling all over the framework, preparing to free the reactor.

            Bane mounted a steel platform on the near side of the structure where a computer terminal glowed blue in the dim light. The security system required the biometric handprints of three members of the Wayne board, thus his trio of hostages.

            As the prisoners, including Dr. Pavel, were herded over by Barsad, Bane pointed at Fox and commanded, “Turn it on.”

            Fox gave a slight but defiant shake of his head. An expected yet infuriating response.

            Bane glared at Barsad, gestured toward Fredericks. Barsad drew his pistol from his protective vest with one hand while his other forced Fredericks to his knees.

            “I only need one other board member,” Bane said, pointing upward. “There are eight others waiting.”

            But Fox remained stalwart. “I won’t do it.”

            Bane jabbed his finger toward Fredericks, and Barsad clicked the safety off his weapon.

            “All right, stop,” Talia desperately intervened. She turned to Fox. “Lucius, you’ll kill this man and yourself, and you’ll barely slow them down.”

            Resolutely, portraying more bravery than any of the male prisoners, Talia ascended the steps. For a mere instant her eyes met Bane’s, and his chest swelled with pride for her convincing performance. Bane stood inches away, towering over her, again gripping the vest’s collar beneath his jacket in a display of self-confidence but also as a way to keep his restless fingers occupied. He also hoped his stance reminded her of her father, as if Rā’s al Ghūl were here with her. While Talia bent to place her hand on the display screen, he considered holding his breath so he could not smell her but knew his mask would betray such an incongruous stoppage of respiration.

            After the machine recorded her biometrics, Talia looked commandingly at Fox before she descended and made room for him to repeat her actions. Once Fox’s prints were accepted, the screen lit up with a diagram of the reactor, and when Fredericks’s hand was read next, the surrounding machinery stirred to life, a warm hum filling the bunker. Dr. Pavel, his eyes now filled with reverent awe as he stared at the reactor, slowly stepped toward the machine.

            “Go on then,” Bane sardonically said to Pavel and gestured with one hand. “Do your work.”

            With his glance reflecting hate and fear, Pavel shed his worn jacket and approached the device that he had only dreamed about during his life’s work, a goal that now mocked him.

            Bane swung his outstretched arm dramatically back to his hostages and ordered his men, “Take them up to the surface. People of their status deserve to experience the next era of Western civilization.” Bane accompanied his sarcasm with a tilt of his head.

            Barsad took hold of Talia’s arm to escort her after the others. She looked up at Bane, nearly expressionless. Her eyes, however, betrayed her. Momentarily she slipped through Miranda Tate’s veneer, showing her concern for Bane and that upon which he was about to embark. It was his face that the world would see, that the world would revile and hunt until his dying day, if the League’s plan for Gotham failed. He was taking all of the risks while she remained protected by him and her alter ego. For that instant her displeasure over his recent decisions was replaced by her anxiety for him, by that shadow of guilt that once again the sacrifices would all be his, for her. And she knew that he accepted all of this without hesitation or regret.

            Then she was gone, and Bane knew he would not see her again for many long months.

#

            Dr. Pavel worked as quickly as possible under many watchful eyes, reprogramming the reactor’s safety parameters and neutron flux allowances. Next, adjustments to the magnetic coils and plasma containment units, among other things, all tasks that he and Bane had discussed several times since Talia had gained access to the reactor’s schematics. Bane had been well schooled in nuclear physics over the years in anticipation of this operation, and he had learned even more from Pavel himself during the man’s extended captivity.

            “It’s done,” Pavel’s fatigued voice broke into Bane’s thoughts some time later. “This is now a four megaton nuclear bomb.”

            Bane, sitting on the steps leading to the platform where Talia had stood, nodded at Pavel’s words. In his restless hands, he now held the detonator to the bomb. He waggled a finger toward the reactor.

            “Pull the core out of the reactor,” Bane commanded his men, and when they jumped to their duties, he bent over once again, pensive because of the emotions that lingered after seeing Talia. Again his fingers toyed with the detonator.

            “No,” Pavel protested, “you cannot. This is the only power source capable of sustaining it. If you move it, the core will decay in a matter of months—”

            “Five,” Bane said, “by my calculations.”

            “Then it will go off!” Pavel was fairly shaking in his effort to make Bane understand. But Bane understood all too well, amazed that Pavel had entertained delusions that the reactor’s purpose was for anything less.

            “And for the sake of your children, Dr. Pavel,” Bane reminded him of his captive family as he laboriously got to his feet, “indeed I hope it does.” With one last glance at the horrified scientist, Bane headed toward the ragged opening in the end wall.

            He led Barsad and his security detail back to the command post. During the short journey, no one spoke to him, all gripped by the gravity of the situation. Bane reflected upon the image of Barsad escorting Talia away from him, its symbolism moving him. Hopefully if the opportunity arose for Barsad to safeguard her from Gotham, she would be as compliant as Miranda Tate had been just now. But Bane smiled sardonically, knowing full well that Barsad would have the fight of his life on his hands to remove her. But he was confident in his lieutenant’s abilities. After all, Barsad cared for Talia as well. True, she sometimes frustrated Barsad with her singular ways and the trouble she often caused his boss, but Bane did not doubt Barsad’s devotion to her as both his sister and his commander.

            Once Bane arrived at the command post, he did not linger. He took the time only to remove his Belstaff jacket and replace it with a favorite old cold-weather coat from his days in Chechnya. By then Barsad had returned.

            “The revolutionary has arrived,” Barsad said with a wry grin, teasing him as he always had about the coat.

            The tan sheepskin shearling coat was well worn and heavy, reaching to Bane’s knees. Two over-sized pockets and loop closures added to its style, along with its tall collar, which Bane wore turned up. He had always hated wind blowing against the back of his neck; it reminded him of the cold drafts that use to snake their way through the pit prison. Its design had first put Bane in mind of great historical military figures like Napoleon and Patton, whom he admired greatly.

            “I wish you’d put a pistol in one of those big-ass pockets,” Barsad gestured to the coat.

            “I have no need of a gun. That is what you are for.”

            Bane led the way out of the command post.

#

            Bane knew Gotham Stadium would be filled with thousands of football fans on this crisp fall day. By now all would be in their seats or making their way there, arms filled with vile, over-priced concession food and drink. Boisterous and excited for the Rogues’ game against Rapid City. Oblivious to the horde of armed men surging up from below.

            The widespread excavations that Bane’s men had accomplished throughout Gotham’s underbelly included gaining access to a boiler room in a sub-basement of Gotham Stadium. In this way Bane and his forces poured up from the depths and fanned out through the various corridors beneath the sparkling new football stadium, eliminating anyone in their way with weapons equipped with silencers. Bane moved at a more sedate pace, allowing his men time to reach their designated positions.

            The stadium itself had grown silent save for a single, angelic voice. As Bane reached the level of the playing field, he easily made out the words of the National Anthem being sung by a young boy. He halted in the shadows just short of the mouth of the corridor, his back to the wall, hands clasped in front of him. Before him, sunlight bathed the field’s green turf, brightening the yellow stands and the people in them even more. Thousands of spectators, all on their feet, eager for the song to end and the game to begin. _Modern-day sports_ , Bane scoffed. _This venue is a pale reflection of the glory of Rome and its Coliseum_. He had gone there once, had marveled at the ancient ruins of the arena, had imagined the power of the Caesars. This place, at a cost of 300 million dollars, had been the keystone of Mayor Garcia’s urban renewal program. Such a waste of money. People were starving on the streets of Gotham, but the richer citizens needed their professional sports.

            He waited for the song to end, listening silently, almost respectfully, staring at the concrete wall across from him. As he admired the singer’s ability, he remembered the sound of his own voice as a young boy, singing songs his mother had taught him, first with her, then with Talia when she was old enough to learn. But once he had donned the mask, he had never sang again. As an adult, free of the prison, he had grown to appreciate music even more, particularly the classics. Music had always calmed him. Some of his fondest memories of his training days with the League had been evenings in the common room, in front of the fire, listening to Passat’s violin. The sweet, emotional language of the instrument had nearly brought him to tears on several occasions.

            More to himself than to Barsad or any of his men nearby, Bane said, “That’s a lovely, lovely voice.”

            Barsad cocked a bemused eyebrow at him.

            His lieutenant’s expression pulled Bane from his reverie, snapped him back into focus. It was time. His forces would be in position. Suddenly impatient, he waggled his fingers at Barsad, silently demanding the detonator that would set off the charges beneath the stadium, the first fruits of their labors. Barsad handed it over, his expression now grave.

            The crowd roared in anticipation of the opening kick-off, and music blared over the public address system.

            “Let the games begin,” Bane said and pushed the button on the detonator.

            The earth rumbled beneath them as multiple charges went off. Bane glanced at his watch. All over Gotham, other explosives were being detonated beneath buildings and streets. Chaos would be erupting everywhere. The authorities—what was left of them above the surface—would not know what catastrophe to address first. The police who had charged into the tunnels in search of Bane would now be faced with collapsing tunnels, meters and meters of concrete to kill and imprison them. The bridges and tunnels connecting the island to the mainland would also collapse from explosions, isolating the city.

            The cheers of the stadium spectators for their beloved, overpaid players turned to screams of terror as the ground beneath the footballers’ feet collapsed. An explosion high above in the stadium sent glass and flames flaring and showering people. Mayor Garcia’s luxury box, blown to oblivion, along with the Mayor himself. The first of Gotham’s authority figures to die. Others throughout the city were being assassinated right now as well, including Commissioner Gordon in his hospital bed.

            Bane started toward the field, still moving at his usual swinging lumber, portraying nothing but cool confidence. As he stepped out into the sunlight, the shrieks took on a new urgency as dozens of armed mercenaries flooded into the stadium from every access point, automatic weapons aimed, covering each section of the stands. Behind Bane, he heard the rumbling of the motorized dolly which carried the fusion reactor.

            Like a conqueror surveying his spoils, Bane squinted against the light and looked all around the stadium, saw with satisfaction the results of the complete implosion of the playing field. The bulk of it lay in crumpled heaps far below the spot where Bane came to a halt, the concrete of the stadium’s foundation broken and intermingled with that of the tunnels that had been beneath it. The bodies of football players lay strewn amidst the rubble, twisted and torn. A couple showed signs of life, but there was nowhere for them to go in the smoldering debris.

            Attention had started to turn to him, and new shouts went up, fingers pointed, looks of horror. Television cameras swung his way. At his feet lay an unconscious official in his black and white uniform, a headset near at hand. Bane retrieved the device, tapped the microphone to ensure it was live. Behind him, the jumbotron broadcast his image. The whole world would be tuning in, including Bruce Wayne. They would instantly recognize him from the stock exchange heist. None of them would ever forget him. Bane would make sure of that.

            “Gotham!” his metallic voice echoed around the massive stadium, drawing everyone’s attention, forcing silence. “Take control.” He raised a quieting hand. “Take control of your city.” He turned momentarily toward the reactor being wheeled out for all to see. “This…this is the instrument of your liberation.”

            Dr. Pavel was brought forward and roughly shoved to his knees before Gotham’s liberator. With trepidation, like a rabbit caught in a snare, he helplessly stared up at Bane.

            “Identify yourself to the world,” Bane commanded.

            Breathing heavily with fear, Pavel said, “Dr. Leonid Pavel. Nuclear physicist.”

            “And what,” Bane pointed to the reactor, “what is this?”

            “It’s a fully primed neutron bomb with a blast radius of six miles.”

            “And who is capable of disarming such a device?”

            Pavel shook his head. “Only me.” He said it with a thin veil of confidence that this exclusive skill would save his life.

            “Only you,” Bane repeated almost pensively, looking toward his own image on the jumbotron. Then he turned back to Pavel, said, “Thank you, good Doctor,” and unceremoniously snapped the man’s neck.

            Screams once again filled the stadium, people shrinking back, disbelieving what they had just witnessed. But Bane did not wait for their shouts to die down.

            “Now, this bomb is armed. This bomb is mobile.” His tone was not overtly threatening but instead almost mocking and light. “And the identity of the triggerman is a mystery, for one of you,” he pointed at the crowd, “holds the detonator. Now we come here not as conquerors, but as liberators, to return control of this city to the people. And at the first sign of interference from the outside world or from those people attempting to flee, this anonymous Gothamite—this unsung hero—will trigger the bomb. For now, martial law is in effect. Return to your homes, hold your families close, and wait. Tomorrow you claim what is rightfully yours.”

            Bane kept the microphone near his mouth for one final, dramatic moment, everyone watching frozen and silent, trying to comprehend the ramifications of what he had just presented to them. Then he tossed away the headset with a ringing crash over the public address system and headed back into the darkness of the tunnel from whence he had come, leaving a stadium full of people and the entire world in shock.

            _Hold your families close_. The phrase rang over and over in Bane’s ears. He thought of the family he had once had: his prison family—his mother, Talia, and Melisande—and his brothers in the League in their old mountain home. All gone now except for Talia, taken from him by unjust, evil men. Well, now such men would answer for those crimes and the many other injustices they had wrought upon those less fortunate. Their reckoning had come at long last.


	53. Chapter 53

            “I think you are enjoying this a bit too much, brother,” Bane said to Barsad with an amused glint in his eyes.

            Barsad grinned. “Well, it’s not every day you get to drive a Tumbler.”

            “Indeed, it is not,” Bane allowed, returning his attention to the sheaf of papers in his hands. “But you will be able to enjoy your boyish indulgence for months to come. Right now we must focus on the business at hand. You are quite certain the most important media bloodsuckers will be there?”

            “Yeah. Every media outlet in Gotham was notified that you’d be making a statement outside Blackgate. You’ll have a sufficient audience for your performance.” Barsad gave him a sly glance. “I think you’ve found your indulgence as well—you love the limelight more than you ever thought you would. Theatricality. You deserve a fucking Oscar for that performance in the stadium yesterday.”

            Bane dismissed Barsad’s observation with a grunt, scanning Commissioner Gordon’s speech, the one he had confiscated in the sewers before Gordon had escaped. “Any word on Gordon’s whereabouts?”

            “No. But don’t worry, we’ll find him.”

            “It’s fortunate that the men who failed in their mission to execute him died at Gordon’s hands; he saved me the trouble. Fools.”

            Barsad frowned. “Well, we know one thing—he’s still in Gotham.”

            “Yes, and able to mount a resistance,” Bane grumbled.

            “If he does, he runs the risk of exposing himself.”

            Bane fell silent as he stared through the small windshield. The Tumbler may appeal to Barsad, but he was not comfortable in the limiting space, for it was not designed to accommodate someone of his substantial size. He had developed a strong aversion to such tight confinement years ago in prison when he had killed a fellow inmate and was subsequently sentenced to two weeks banishment in a hole in the deepest reaches of the prison. At the time he had been only a teenager, and though already toughened and brave, the endless days of pitch darkness, isolation and inhuman conditions had tried his physical and mental endurance. But he had accepted his punishment willingly, for the man whom he had murdered had once snatched Talia from his arms in the hopes of extorting Melisande’s family for money. No one ever again attempted such a crime, having seen to what lengths Bane would go to protect the infant.

            “Our meeting is still set with Dr. Crane?” Bane asked Barsad as he tucked Gordon’s speech into an interior pocket of his shearling coat.

            “Yes, this evening. He’s eager to meet you.”

            “I doubt few would say that,” Bane said, amused.

            “Well, he did once work for Talia’s father, remember.”

            “Yes, and we must mind our tongues about that around him.”

            “Of course. But what I meant is he’s obviously not bothered by working for,” he quirked an eyebrow at Bane and grinned, “scary people.”

            Bane grunted again, looking ahead along the street. The convoy of Tumblers—his in the lead—had begun to pass television news trucks parked along the curbs. Beyond them, gathered near the formidable, iconic entrance to Blackgate Prison, were the reporters and cameras, awaiting the Masked Man’s arrival. Bane smiled to himself. Bruce Wayne would have yet another performance to witness, as would Talia.

            He thought of her watching on television. She would not be doing so from the comfort of Miranda Tate’s penthouse, however, for once he unleashed Gotham’s worst criminals and declared war on the city’s wealthy today, places like the penthouse would be ransacked and occupants thrown into the streets or killed. No, Talia was safely away from any such renowned buildings, protected discreetly by Yemi and his detail.

            In anticipation of Bane’s arrival, his men were stationed on the massive portico of a municipal building across from Blackgate, dressed against the cold. Bane paid little mind to the chilly weather as he climbed out of the Tumbler’s top hatch. The cadre of reporters stared, microphones and digital recorders held up in anticipation of his statement, cameras zooming in.

            With one hand on his hip and the other slicing a gesture at the massive black gate behind the reporters, Bane began his oratory in a histrionic tone that Barsad would surely find entertaining, “Behind you stands a symbol of oppression: Blackgate Prison, where a thousand men have languished under the name of this man.” From one of his coat’s large pockets, he withdrew a glossy eight by ten color photograph of Gotham’s former district attorney. “Harvey Dent, who has been held up to you as _the_ shining example of justice.” Bane ripped the photo precisely down the center, rendering Dent into what he truly had been—Two Face. “You have been supplied with a false idol to stop you tearing down this corrupt city.”

            Bane thought of James Gordon cowering somewhere in Gotham, hopefully glued to a television, unknowingly about to have his reputation destroyed and his credibility erased. If Gordon entertained thoughts of recruiting men to fight to regain their city, he would find few who would follow a man who had once betrayed them then deceived them further for eight years.

            “Let me tell you the truth about Harvey Dent,” Bane mocked as he withdrew Gordon’s speech from his pocket, “from the words of Gotham’s police commissioner, James Gordon.” He unfolded the pages. “ _The Batman didn’t murder Harvey Dent; he saved my boy then took the blame for Harvey’s appalling crimes so that I could, to my shame, build a lie around this fallen idol_.” Bane melodramatically shook his head at the words, as if in disbelief over Gordon’s gall. “ _I praised the madman who tried to murder my own child_ ,” Bane’s voice wavered upon the word ‘child,’ as if moved by false emotion. “ _But I can no longer live with my lie. It is time to trust the people of Gotham with the truth, and it is time for me to resign_.” He turned his attention to the reporters and Blackgate, to the citizens watching. “And do you accept this man’s resignation?” He heard a roar of approval from inside the prison where his speech was being broadcast through the P.A. system. “And do you accept the resignation of all of these liars, of all the corrupt?”

            Another explosion of shouting from inside Blackgate, making the reporters even more nervous, as if they feared the gate bursting open behind them.

            “We take Gotham from the corrupt…” Bane swept his arm to command the Tumbler behind his to activate its turret gun. The cannon turned toward Blackgate, and the reporters scattered as Bane continued, “…the rich, the oppressors of generations who have kept you down with myths of opportunity, and we give it back to you, the people.” He spread his hands outward as if presenting a prize. “Gotham is yours. None shall interfere. Do as you please.”

            The Tumbler’s turret gun blasted a fiery hole through the prison’s gate, and Bane’s sing-song voice turned harsh, “But start by storming Blackgate and freeing the oppressed!”

            Barsad led men through the hole, toting bags of weapons to distribute among the inmates. The handful of guards would be overrun instantly.

            In a few short minutes, prisoners in orange jumpsuits, rifles raised above their heads, came howling out of the gate, shouting their allegiance to their liberator.

            “Step forward those who would serve,” Bane cried, a surge of frenzy pouring through him, “for an army will be raised. The powerful will be ripped from their decadent nests and cast out into the cold world that we know and endure. Courts will be convened. Spoils will be enjoyed. Blood will be shed. The police will survive, as they learn to serve _true_ justice.” He thrust his hand before him, thumb and forefinger conjoined in a melodramatic pose, like a politician speaking to his constituents, and finished, “This great city…” he paused and softened his tone like an assuring father, “it will endure. Gotham will survive.”

            With that, he squared his shoulders, gazed upon his new forces surrounding his Tumbler, still waving their rifles and cheering. He held his arms out to either side, welcoming them, then with a bow of his head in acknowledgment of their gratitude for their freedom, he slipped back inside the Tumbler and awaited Barsad’s return.

#

            Bane moved his command post to an upper floor at City Hall. The place was currently controlled chaos. Couriers were constantly coming and going, and commanders were telephoning to report progress throughout Gotham. Bane’s clerks and runners were kept in continuous motion, harried but eager, everyone still flushed with excitement after so many months of clandestine work above and below ground.

            Somehow Bane tuned out the noise to focus on the dispatches he was reading as well as to keep an eye on the incessant news reports flashing across the array of televisions in the spacious CP. His performances at both the stadium and Blackgate were repeated over and over and analyzed by newscasters and so-called experts on terrorism. It was strange to him to hear his own voice the way others heard it. Sometimes while looking at the images, he had to remind himself that it was him being seen and heard throughout the world, a man who had once been a forgotten boy, lost and without hope, buried from society.

            “You look good up there, brother,” Barsad’s buoyant voice announced his arrival in the room.

            Bane turned to him but ignored his lieutenant’s grin and leading statement. “Did you make the arrangements for supplies and communications?”

            “Yeah.” Barsad laughed. “You should have seen the dude’s face when I reminded him what would happen if he let anyone cross that bridge.”

            Bane nodded absently, turned his attention back to the dispatch in his hand. They had left one bridge intact in order to bring supplies into the city. Five months would require additional goods for not only his forces but for the citizens. He wanted people fearful and intimidated but not too hungry. Hunger could lead to insurrection. People could give up freedom easier than they would food.

            “Things are going well,” Barsad continued. “What resistance we’ve encountered has been neutralized.”

            “Yes, so it would seem.” Bane glanced at the nearest television.

            “Abraham’s bringing Dr. Crane up. Should be here any time.”

            “Very good. Put him in the conference room. Make him comfortable.” Then he stepped close to Barsad, lowered his voice. “Has Yemi reported any trouble?”

            “No, he’s kept her safe.” Barsad offered a sustaining smile. “Don’t worry, brother. She’ll be all right, and if something goes wrong Yemi knows how to get help.”

            “I do not want her suffering, but we must be discreet with how she obtains shelter and food. She cannot look to be better off than any of her colleagues.”

            “We’ve found a good place for her. It’s not the same as a penthouse, of course, but she won’t suffer.”

            “Suffering builds character.” Bane gave a quiet snort of cynicism. “Her father often said that, and she parroted it many times over the years.”

            “Well, whatever she may suffer now won’t be anything like what you both went through when you were kids.”

            “True enough, brother, but you know the very idea of her going wanting troubles me.”

            “Well, it won’t be forever, will it?”

            Bane nodded thoughtfully. “Indeed.”

            Ten minutes later Dr. Jonathan Crane arrived, and Bane entered the conference room alone to find the younger man seated casually at the table, a steaming cup of coffee in front of him. His appearance amused Bane. Somehow in the short time between Crane’s liberation from Blackgate and now, he had acquired a well-cut gray suit and pale red tie. His short, dark hair was clean and neatly trimmed, his face freshly shaven. Pedantically he straightened his wire-rimmed glasses and studied Bane, who sat across from him. Crane’s pale blue eyes were cold and unafraid. Yes, the psych doctor had ice water in his veins; anyone who had dealt so closely with Rā’s al Ghūl needed such qualities. Bane smiled inwardly, knowing he had chosen the right man for this job.

            “Dr. Crane, so good of you to come on such short notice,” Bane said with a hint of sarcasm.

            Crane parried with equal mockery, “Fortunate for you, my calendar was wide open today.” He sipped his coffee. “And how am I to address you? Mr. Bane?”

            “Sir will suffice.”

            Crane made a dismissive face. “Very well. Sir. First, let me extend my sincere appreciation for your keen sense of justice for seeing to my release today. But truly you shouldn’t have gone to such trouble just for me.”

            Bane smirked. “You are almost as amusing as the Joker, Doctor.”

            “Who is still in Arkham, I hear. You did not see fit to release those prisoners.”

            “We do not require their services, and those poor souls are better off in a medical institution…at least for now.”

            “Very wise.” Crane leaned forward with a small, chilly smile. “I heard that you and the Joker met once and colluded in his plans for the Batman. Considering the fact that the Batman soon thereafter disappeared, I’m thinking there was some truth to that rumor. And now it appears he has vanished again, just as you’ve come to power. No coincidence there either, I suspect.”

            “You struck me as a man above listening to idle rumors, Doctor.”

            “Rumors once, but now it seems more of a reality. And reality is what I deal in, sir.” Crane relaxed back in his chair again. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company today?”

            “I have a job for you here in Gotham’s new society, one I believe you will enjoy.”

            “Indeed?” Interest sparked in Crane’s eyes. “And is there compensation involved? Or is preservation my only compensation?”

            “There is that. You will be protected from any of Gotham’s less compliant citizens and from the families of those whom you sit in judgment of. And you will be fed and clothed in a comfortable manner. Winter is coming.”

            “Judgment, you say? Are you suggesting I will be in a judicial capacity then?”

            “ _The_ judicial capacity. You will be both judge and jury in a court that will be set up.”

            “What sort of court?”

            “A court that will pass judgment on those citizens of Gotham who have made their fortunes by unjust means, who have tormented the city’s lesser population for their own gains, as well as any others who try to upset our new order, those who might be ignorant enough to show contempt for the favor we have done the city.”

            Crane eyed him. “I suppose there is little sense in me inquiring as to your long-term plans for Gotham.”

            “Indeed, no sense at all, Doctor.”

            Crane paused, and some of his flippancy left him. “Why me?”

            “Sharing a common enemy often is the foundation of strong relationships. That commonality and your appreciation for your release give me confidence in your ability and your loyalty to our cause.”

            “ _Our_ cause?” Crane wagged a finger back and forth between them. “Do you mean you and me?”

            “I mean all those who believe in the cause of true justice and the downfall of the corrupt. With a man of your background as Gotham’s judge, there will be no politics involved, no favoritism for cronies, unlike those who came before you. You will forward our cause in your way, and I will forward it in mine.”

            Crane sipped his coffee again, thoughtful.

            “You will accept this position, Doctor?” Though he posed it as a question, they both knew there was little choice truly offered.

            Crane needlessly adjusted his glasses, swallowed, and clasped his slender fingers together atop the table. He leaned slightly forward again and offered a small, frosty smile, said, “I will be honored.”


	54. Chapter 54

            Crane wasted no time ensconcing himself in Gotham’s courthouse, which included a remodel that reflected the city’s new chaotic order. At one end of a long, cavernous room, furniture from throughout the building had been stacked to form a mountain. Atop it, Crane held court in a worn judge’s robe, light spilling over him through tall windows. In the center of the room was one chair—an antique, a worn but ornate golden piece. Upon it sat those who were judged and sentenced, most often Gotham’s rich. Always a quick affair. After all, the docket would be full for days to come. He allowed the accused a brief moment to plead their case and beg for mercy before he banged his gavel and offered them a simple choice for sentencing.

            “Death or exile?”

            Exile consisted of the condemned trying to swim across the rivers that surrounded the island. No one would ever have the strength to endure the autumn cold or the strong currents. Soon the water would freeze, or nearly freeze. Then the accused would have to brave frigid winds and cracking, shifting ice in their hopeless attempts to reach freedom.

            Occasionally Bane attended the sessions as a distraction from his work or from the boredom that soon set in after Gotham had been stabilized. He observed off to one side, taking no part in the proceedings, as was his agreement with Crane. Silently he would watch, often finger crocheting to keep his hands busy and his mind calm. With amusement, he would watch the shouting, spewing, cursing gallery of spectators—men and women venting their frustration on the wealthy of society who sat in the chair of judgment and begged for clemency, claiming that their fortune had been obtained through honest means, that no one had suffered because of it, that they had always been benevolent to Gotham’s less fortunate. Neither the mob nor Crane were sympathetic.

            There were others besides the affluent—citizens who stepped beyond the few restrictions Bane had imposed, such as those who attempted violence against any of Bane’s men or those who were accused of rape. The latter crime was one Bane would tolerate from no man, whether a Gothamite or one of his own. Since Melisande’s murder, he had never hesitated to immediately execute any man guilty of attempting to perpetrate such a horror.

            It was during one of his visits to the courtroom that he received a phone call from Yemi. The minute he saw the number on his display, a chill shook him, for Yemi only broke protocol to call him if it was an urgent matter relating to Talia. Quickly he slipped from the noisy room into a side chamber to take the call in privacy. Well, not complete privacy for his security detail never let him out of their sight.

            “Yes?”

            “Sorry to call you—”

            “Is something wrong?”

            “No, no. She’s fine. That’s not why I’m calling.”

            Bane scowled. “Then why are you taking such a risk?”

            “I thought you might want to hear who I just got off the phone with.”

            “Let us not play guessing games, brother.”

            “Hans. Hans from…from our old life.”

            Stunned, Bane stared at a frosted window that looked out upon the street, a street nearly devoid of traffic.

            “Hans?” he said once he had recovered. “I didn’t know you were still communicating with him. It’s been years, has it not?”

            “Yes, since I came here to this country.”

            “And why did he call you?” Bane asked suspiciously.

            “He wants to talk to you.”

            “Why?”

            “He wouldn’t tell me. But I can think of only two reasons; he either wants to try to talk you out of what you’re doing or maybe he wants to join us.”

            Bane gazed out the window into the gray sky, remembering his old friend from the pit prison, seeing him as clearly as if they had parted yesterday. How old would Hans be now?

            “I told him that I would pass his message along,” Yemi continued. “But I told him I couldn’t guarantee that you’d speak with him.” He paused. “Will you?”

            Bane considered. “Hmm, perhaps I should. After all, he knows more about us than any other man.” And more specifically, Hans knew Talia. Yet surely he would never have had an occasion to see Miranda Tate. “I will need to acquire his assurance that he will pass along nothing that he knows to the authorities.”

            “Don’t you think he would’ve already done that if he was going to?”

            Bane nodded to himself. “No doubt you are correct, brother. If he had betrayed us, there would be no purpose in him calling.”

            “I don’t think he would. You both saved his life, after all. Hans isn’t the type of man to forget that.”

            “Well, if he has, then I shall remind him,” Bane rumbled, the mask’s amplification echoing his words in the empty room.

            “So you’ll speak with him? He’s taking a risk, too, you know; if the authorities find out his connection to you, his life could be turned upside down.”

            “Yes, I will speak with him, but it will be best for his safety and ours if we don’t use the typical channels. I’ll acquire a burner phone. Tell him that he must do the same and give you the number. Once I have that, I will call him.”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “And, brother, it goes without saying that you did not mention a certain woman to him?”

            “No, of course not.”

            “Very good. Call me when you have the number.”

            Bane remained in the room after disconnecting the call. He shuffled over to the window where he sat on its broad seat. The chill from outside penetrated the glass and cooled the sweat beneath his coarse brown shirt, an old garment reminiscent of the simple garb he used to wear during his days at the League’s mountain headquarters. He stared down at the street where only an occasional car passed or one of the Tumblers on patrol. Gas had grown scarce, rationed for Bane’s forces. Public transportation was virtually nonexistent now.

            Hans. Bane closed his eyes and shivered at a memory from the pit, of his German friend whom he had known since the big man arrived in the prison when Bane was ten years old. A natural-born leader with an intimidating physique and sharp wits, Hans had risen quickly through the hierarchy of the prison. He did not do so simply by force—and such times as those were only necessary for his own survival—but by gaining respect for toughness as well as fairness. A cellblock captain as well as the man who always held the fall of the safety rope that prisoners used when they attempted to scale the shaft. That duty had led to Hans’s great despair when the rope had been tampered with by one of Bane’s enemies and led to Bane’s back-breaking plunge to the bottom of the shaft.

            Easily Bane recalled how he had been intrigued by the quiet German from the first day that he had been incarcerated for working with an arms dealer, an arms dealer who had supplied guns to forces that had attempted to overthrow Melisande’s warlord father. Hans was not his real name but instead a nickname that the other prisoners had bestowed upon him the instant they heard his accent. His real name, like Bane’s, had died in the pit. Bane had not even realized Hans had any other name until years after meeting him, and he had quickly forgotten it since no one used it, not even Hans.

            Always curious about newcomers, those with fresh experiences and news to share from the world of light and warmth, Bane had hung about Hans’s cell whenever he could find an excuse to do so. Bane had learned at a tender age that many fresh prisoners had no desire to speak to anyone and would react violently to those who tried to engage them, so he had been cautious with Hans, especially since the German was the largest man in the pit (until Bane reached adulthood). But Bane’s insatiable desire for knowledge compelled him to shadow the man. If he could gain nothing else from Hans, perhaps he could at least learn a new language. He had little expectation for friendship, for no one up to that point in Bane’s life had shown any desire to befriend the boy who lived with the prison’s biggest point of torture for all there—his mother.

            One of Hans’s traits that immediately won Bane’s respect and admiration was the German’s lack of malice toward his mother. While other prisoners regularly wielded frustrated insults like verbal daggers or displayed lewd, disgusting behavior when they passed her cell, Hans did none of those things. The first time he had walked by their cell, he had looked at Bane’s mother where she sat sewing on her charpoy, but he had said nothing and kept walking. This self-control impressed and puzzled Bane, for he had never witnessed such virtues before. His mother had been so shocked that she had commented on it.

            “Perhaps,” she had said, “we at last have a civilized man among us. But be careful, my son. We both know men are not always what they seem.”

            Yet in time Bane learned that Hans indeed was what he appeared to be. Bane’s frequent presence seemed to amuse Hans, who at first did not engage him, as if he wanted to string along his curious stalker. This tactic succeeded in aggravating Bane who then increased his efforts until at last he simply approached Hans one day while he was washing at the pool and began asking the dozens of questions that had been fermenting in his mind since the prisoner’s arrival. They had been friends ever since.

            Hans had given Bane much more than friendship. He became almost a father figure and taught him how to fight, how to strengthen and harden his body, how to survive among the hostile population. And Hans had saved his life that fateful day when Talia had climbed to freedom and the prisoners had turned their hatred and frustration on Bane for his concealment of Talia’s true gender. Hans, along with Temujin, had plowed through the savage ranks, fighting men off Bane where he had lain beneath the masses, unconscious, torn, bloody, and near death. Hans had helped save Talia as well, the day she had been kidnapped in the pit. Both he and Yemi had come to Bane’s aid in recovering the infant from her kidnapper.

            Such memories unexpectedly made Bane nostalgic, and he stood from the window seat, berated himself for his lapse. There was work to be done, and here he was wasting his time on the past. But as he left the room, he could not deny that he looked forward to hearing from Hans.

#

            Before dialing the number of Hans’s burner phone, Bane hesitated with finger poised. Again he tried to divine his old friend’s purpose for calling. Yemi’s speculation of one of two reasons was valid, but surely Hans would know a simple phone call from one friend—no matter how prized he was—would not halt the massive operation that would culminate in Gotham’s annihilation, nor would Hans suddenly volunteer to join their forces; he would have no motivation to abandon his safe, comfortable, legitimate life to throw his lot in with a suicide squad. Hans had gotten married only a couple of years after escaping prison; he had two sons. The thought of his old friend with a wife and children almost made Bane chuckle. He was glad Hans had found happiness; he deserved it.

            At last he dialed the number. Two rings later the familiar voice answered. “ _Dies ist Hans_.”

            An unexpected smile stretched behind Bane’s mask; of course Hans would use the name that was best known to his friend. In German, Bane answered, “It is good to hear your voice, old friend. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

            “Well…” Hans hesitated, as if surprised by the question. “With what’s happening there, I felt compelled to call you. I know it’s probably an exercise in futility, but I would be remiss if I didn’t at least try.”

            “Try what, my friend? To convince me to disarm the bomb and quietly leave Gotham? You are right—such a request is futile.”

            “But why, Bane? Why are you doing this?”

            “It is my duty.”

            “To destroy an entire city and everyone in it?”

            “Who said anything about destroying it? We are reforming it.”

            “Bane, don’t bullshit me. I know enough about your operations over the years to know reformation is not one of your goals. You are a purger.”

            “Indeed. And there is evil incarnate that must be purged from this country.”

            “There’s evil everywhere, and there always will be. You can’t cleanse the entire world.”

            “No, only parts of it, the ones that are necessary.”

            Hans paused, and Bane could feel his disappointment. “There’s more to this than you, Bane. I can sense it. You’re working for someone. You must be. You are not a madman.”

            “Perhaps I am now, old friend. You do not know me anymore. I am not the boy shivering in that hole any longer.”

            “I can see that. You’ve brought a world power to its knees. You’ve made your point. Now give up Gotham.”

            “If I do, it will only go back to its corrupt ways. Gotham is beyond saving and must be allowed to die. A wise man once told me that, and he was right.”

            “And what happens after that, if you survive? Every agency in the world will be hunting you down.”

            “My sacrifice is the price of justice.”

            “ _Mein Gott_ , Bane. Killing innocent people is not justice.”

            “In war, there is collateral damage, as you know. Like the innocent villagers who were killed because of the arms you helped sell in the Middle East.”

            “Damn it, Bane, this isn’t about me.”

            “I remember a time in our past,” Bane continued calmly, reflecting none of Hans’s anger, “when you admitted that trying to change my mind was a pointless task. So let us speak no more of this. Our time is short. I would much prefer revisiting our friendship and remembering old times, such as the time you saved my life and the time I helped save yours. Surely you have not forgotten our blood debt to one another, old friend.”

            “Of course not,” Hans said in a more settled voice.

            “I would hope that debt would serve to ensure your loyalty.”

            “I have not shared our connection with anyone, if that’s what you mean.”

            Bane nodded to himself. “I am pleased to hear that. And rest assured I have no intention of sharing your past with anyone either. I would not want to bring any turmoil to your family.” He paused to let the veiled threat sink in, then continued pleasantly, “Tell me of your family. Are they well?”

            The conversation’s change in tone seemed to take Hans aback, but he managed to recover quickly. “Yes, they are happy, as am I.” He hesitated. “I wish you had the same happiness, Bane. I wish you had a family to help you see a different path than the one you’ve taken.”

            “I did have a family. They are the reasons why I have chosen such a path. My family was violently taken from me, by men like those who rule the world, wealthy men who have no conscience about destroying the lives of those whom they view as inferior. So you are mistaken, old friend. My family has helped me find _this_ path, and for their sake it is one I cannot abandon. They deserve vengeance, just as those in the pit suffered vengeance for what they did to my family there. Would you do anything less for your family if they were slaughtered? I think not.”

            There was silence on the other end of the line except for an exasperated sigh, one Bane had heard many times from Hans during their prison term. Of course Hans knew no details about his life with the League before or after the death of Rā’s al Ghūl, but he knew enough from Yemi during their time in Africa to understand the type of family to which Bane referred. What he did know intimately, however, was the bond Bane had shared with Melisande and Talia; after all, it was Hans himself who used to tease Bane about his prison “family.” Though not the same as Hans’s family, the German would easily understand Bane’s emotions on the matter.

            “Are you still in touch with Talia?”

            Bane hesitated. “Yes. She is well, and she will be pleased to know that I spoke with you.”

            “Where does she live now?”

            “She is in France.”

            “And what does she think about your coup?”

            “She understands. After all, her father’s killer hails from this place.”

            “What about your own father? Has he tried to contact you since this started?”

            “Of course not. He would not want to run the risk of the world knowing that I am his son. And even if he did, I would not speak to him. I owe him nothing, just as he apparently felt that he owed me nothing when I located him after my escape.” He paused. “Are you still in contact with Abrams?”

            “Yes. In fact, he’s the one who urged me to call you.”

            Bane remembered well the taciturn man who had lived in the cell next to his. Abrams had avoided relationships of any kind when he had first arrived in the pit, but after the death of Bane’s mother, the man had gradually taken an interest in Bane, though nothing overt like Hans’s relationship. Instead, Abrams had been more subtle and quick to withdraw, but he had become dependable, and Bane and Talia had considered him a dear friend by the time Rā’s arrived in the pit. His name, along with Hans and Temujin, had been on the short list of those Talia insisted her father spare from his eradication.

            “Abrams considered trying to contact you himself,” Hans continued, “but he felt I would be more diplomatic.”

            A small grin pulled at Bane’s lips. Abrams had always been far more volatile than Hans, far more cryptic in his advice and responses to Bane’s impetuous actions in prison. A curmudgeonly uncle, Hans had once called Abrams. The two men had gone to Germany together after their liberation and had wished Bane had accompanied them, but of course they knew his devotion to Talia would never allow him to leave her at such a tender age.

            “You must give him my regards,” Bane said.

            “I will. Needless to say, you shocked the living hell out of both of us when we saw you in Gotham Stadium. We tried to call each other at the same time, wondered why we couldn’t get through.” Hans almost laughed but then recovered his sobriety.

            “Did he ever marry?”

            “No. Never did. He didn’t recover as well as I did from prison. He prefers not to remember those days. Well, except for you. He always kept track of you through me, you know. I think it always bothered him, knowing what you suffered at the end and how you refused to leave Talia for treatment.”

            “She wasn’t my only reason, you know. At the time I feared that I would only end up back in prison once any caretakers found out that I was considered an escaped convict.”

            “He never came right out and said this until after we saw you in that stadium, but he really regretted that he didn’t somehow force you to come with us. You meant a lot to him, Bane, more than he’s ever told me. I think he partly blames himself for what you’re doing now. He believes your life would have been better and that you would not be where you are now if he had dragged you with us.”

            An unexpected catch in Bane’s throat made it difficult to swallow. “Abrams is a good man. And you must tell him that there is nothing anyone could have done then to separate me from Talia…or to alter me from who I now am. In truth, it is who I have always been.”

            “I don’t believe that, Bane, and Abrams certainly doesn’t either. Hardship and pain have molded you into this. You can’t tell me that your mother would disagree with me. She didn’t raise you to be this.”

            Indignation swelled in Bane, and his grip tightened on the phone. “I will not dignify that with a response. The debt I owe you for your friendship in our old life will stay my tongue, but do not misinterpret my restraint as any manner of agreement. Do not speak of my mother again.”

            Hans faltered, sighed once more. “Very well. But I hope you’ll consider everything I’ve said to you, Bane. You’ve taken a terrible step on a journey that will only lead to your ruin. I wish there was something I could do or say to convince you. Unlike the rest of the world, I see more than a masked terrorist on the news. That’s not how I want to see you. That’s not what I want to remember you as. Neither does Abrams.”

            Bane settled, closed his eyes and breathed deeply of the mask’s medicinal vapor before responding with his former calm. “I am flattered that you both still think enough of me to reach out to me, but know this. I am where I need to be. Perhaps one day you will understand. But from here forward, you should not contact me, Hans. If the media wolves get one sniff of our connection, your world will be turned inside out. I don’t want to draw that kind of attention to you or Abrams, and certainly not to Talia.”

            “Still protecting her, I see,” Hans said with a mix of admiration and melancholy.

            “Always.”

            “But how will you protect her from the grave, Bane?”

            Bane smiled. “I will find a way. Now farewell, old friend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To learn more about Bane's relationship with Hans in the pit prison, read my story RISEN FROM DARKNESS, the first in this trilogy. :)


	55. Chapter 55

            The depths of winter had settled upon Gotham. The night beyond Bane’s window was starless, moonless, like the heart of the pit prison. A thin blanket of snow upon the streets and rooftops provided a slight contrast to the darkness. Artificial lighting throughout the city was spotty due to enforced brown outs. Here in Bane’s room, only a single lamp beside his bed, used for reading, provided illumination.

            Alone for the first time all day, Bane basked in the seclusion and thought of Talia as his gaze roamed the city, his kingdom. He hoped she was warm and well-fed and not lonely. How he longed to see her. Soon, he reminded himself, for less than a month remained until they and Gotham saw their end.

            As the weeks of the siege crept by, he had grown more and more reclusive, being seen only when he needed to be, whether making an appearance for the media or for the morale of his men. He had withdrawn even from Barsad, a change commented upon by his ever-intuitive second. Bane dismissed his concern, told him that he simply required solitude for the many decisions he needed to make on a daily basis. There was truth to that, but more so he just wanted to be alone.

            Turning back to his bed, he stripped to his underwear. He removed his long-sleeved brown shirt and replaced it with the khaki t-shirt in which he normally slept. When he sat on the queen-sized bed, the mattress and frame protested his weight. Like the room itself, the bed was unadorned, just a simple headboard and a single dull gray blanket beneath Melisande’s colorful blanket. His men had brought the bed along with a desk, a nightstand, and a bookshelf to this room, which had once been the office of a city official. The lavish furnishings that had originally resided here were long gone, enjoyed by someone else. Bane would have no part of such trappings. His Spartan lifestyle had led to admiration from some of Gotham’s more compliant residents, his willingness to shun luxury when he was certainly in a position to acquire any comfort he so desired. But there was only one comfort he longed for, and she was beyond his reach.

            His stomach growled, but he ignored it. He had skipped supper. The requirement of morphine injections for the times when he needed to remove the mask irritated him more and more. Stronger and stronger doses were required to override his ever-increasing tolerance of the drug. He was tired of the struggle, of the frequent pinpricks, the physical reminder of his Achilles’s Heel.

            Upon his nightstand were several manila folders containing various reports from his officers. Although he knew he should read them, he reached instead for the book that lay beside them. He needed an escape from his responsibilities, even if just for a few minutes, and Charles Dickens could always provide it. With a smile of anticipation, he took _Great Expectations_ into his hands and lay back against the pillows, pulling Melisande’s blanket close. Then he began to read about the orphan Pip and the surly convict who happened upon him grieving over his parents’ graves.

            Just as Bane reached the end of the first chapter, an urgent knock sounded upon his door, followed by Barsad’s voice, “Bane, are you awake?”

            “Come in.” He did not set aside the book as Barsad hurried in, nor did he move from his comfortable spot, annoyed with his lieutenant’s timing.

            “We have a problem,” Barsad said breathlessly, as if he had run all the way up the stairs instead of taking the elevator.

            Bane sat up, his first thoughts going to Talia, as usual; an unrelenting instinct. “What is it?”

            Barsad carried a large manila envelope. “We just received intel from our man at the Pentagon about a team of Special Forces they’re sending here.” He handed the envelope to Bane, concern aging his scruffy face. “They’ll be here tomorrow.”

            “And we are just now learning this?” Bane scowled at Barsad as he unclasped the envelope’s metal fastener.

            “He just learned of it himself. He transmitted the information as soon as he had it. Those are the dossiers for the three-man team. They’ll be smuggled in on a supply truck tomorrow. We can halt the shipments altogether or have men ready at every drop—”

            “No, let them come.” Bane scanned the photos of each of the men, paying particular attention to their commander, a handsome African-American, one Captain Mark Jones. Highly decorated, with tours in both Iraq and Afghanistan. “If we intervene too early, our Pentagon operative could be compromised. A three-man team poses no physical threat. Their mission will be intelligence gathering. Their primary focus will be to learn about the bomb and any weaknesses that may be exploited. And to that end they will seek out those who can provide such information.” Bane lifted his stare pointedly to Barsad. “That is where we shall intercept them.”

            “Won’t that put her in danger?”

            “She will be briefed ahead of time, and we will ensure that she escapes us.”

            “Us?”

            “Yes. I will be leading the assault. I will ensure that none of these men elude us. They will be made an example, should Washington be foolish enough to try a second attempt at infiltration.” Bane spread the dossiers upon the bed, already envisioned the men dead at his feet. “Have our analysts find out everything they can on these operatives. Bring the information to me as soon as you have it. Notify Umarov to assemble a team, the best men he’s got.”

            Bane’s stomach emitted a particularly loud protest to which Barsad cocked an eyebrow.

            “You haven’t eaten,” Barsad stated with a scowl. “Again.”

            “Your spies are reporting regularly to you, I see.”

            “I don’t need spies to hear the howling in your stomach right now, brother.”

            “I just gave you orders, Barsad,” Bane said coldly as he studied the dossiers. “It seems to me you should be executing them. I don’t want to see you in here again unless you have something to report from your findings. Understood?”

            Barsad stewed for a moment but wisely left, saying nothing more.

#

            The building where Talia lived was owned by Wayne Enterprises and once housed various businesses, including a bank on the ground floor. Now it was a refuge for various citizens, among them the men and women who had run Wayne Enterprises, including Lucius Fox. Of course such people had no homes to go to; Bane’s revolution had reduced such holdings to public property.

            Bane stared at the structure from his location in a building across the street. Around him, Barsad and Umarov waited with the tactical team. Bane’s attention drifted upward to the floor where he knew Talia lived. Though he had never been there, he knew the layout as intimately as he had known the floor plans of her penthouse, such information provided by Yemi. Yemi, however, was not in the building with Talia. He had quietly withdrawn his men, using an excuse that Fox would believe, to be unavailable as Talia’s security force when Captain Jones and his Special Forces showed up as expected.

            Bane knew he would not see her. Once the shooting started, she would flee, and of course she would escape. All on the tactical team were League men who knew to be careful where their bullets flew once they opened fire.

            “Are you sure you don’t want us to take at least one prisoner?” Barsad asked in a low voice.

            “No,” Bane rasped, never turning from his view of Talia’s building.

            With a frown, Barsad withdrew.

            Within minutes, their coms crackled. “They’re headed your way,” Abraham reported from his vantage point down the street.

            As Jones and his men came into view, Bane spied a man with them who did not match the photos in any of the dossiers. Softly he growled to himself, then said, “Who is with them?”

            It was Abraham who answered, “We’re not sure, but we think he’s one of Gordon’s cops. He’s been with them all day, leading them around, no doubt sharing intel, observing the trucks.”

            The reactor had been loaded on an armored truck, one of three identical vehicles that roamed the city, protected by Tumblers. A shell game. The true content of whichever truck was carrying the reactor was protected from government eyes from above by lead-lined roofs.

            Bane put a pair of field glasses to his eyes and homed in on the policeman in his civilian attire who walked next to Jones. Clean-shaven, boyish…familiar. Bane’s photographic memory placed him after only a moment: John Blake, the officer who had rescued Gordon from the sewer. How often was this boy going to interfere?

            The small group tried to appear casual, hands shoved in pockets, loose gaits, but Bane’s sharp eyes saw through their front. His fingers twitched with his mounting need to kill someone, to eradicate these brazen fools who thought they were up against only a force of mercenaries, not the League itself. Soon the U.S. government and its people would be reminded that they bowed to his whims, not the other way around.

            When Jones and the others disappeared into the building, Bane glanced at his watch.

            “Ten minutes,” he said, “then move into your positions.”

            Bane imagined them passing through the lobby, riding the elevator up to Talia’s floor, all the while ignoring the citizens hunkered in the cold building, warming themselves over open fires fueled by gathered scraps of furniture and other things. Talia would be prepared, Bane knew. She would perform flawlessly. Miranda Tate. Jones would think her noble and brave, and he would be correct, of course, but not for the reasons he believed.

            Another glance at his watch, then, “Go,” a command delivered with a metallic chill.

            His men slipped out noiselessly. Barsad remained next to Bane, automatic rifle in hand, then dropped in behind him as Bane left the building with measured, unhurried strides.

            Bane crossed the street well behind his men, never picking up his almost leisurely pace. He sensed Barsad’s familiar irritation, for he was always concerned whenever his commander moved about in the open. There was the perpetual threat that someone with a hero complex and a gun could take a shot at him, and while his torso was protected by his armored vest, his head was bare.

            The team slipped inside the building. There they took up concealed positions in the lobby and waited for Jones to ride the elevator back down. Bane hoped Gordon’s man remained with them. An opportunity to stamp out one of the Commissioner’s underlings should not be missed.

            Just as Bane stepped through the double bank of glass doors, shots rang out, the first one dropping one of the Special Forces men just outside of the elevator as they emerged. One of Bane’s men fired his automatic rifle into the air to frighten the squatters who all began to scream and flee, creating instant chaos that would hopefully disorient Jones. The captain and his remaining team member took cover behind pillars and returned fire, but in short order the second man died, and when Jones dashed out into the open, pistol barking, he was shot as well.

            In the eerie quiet that followed, Bane made his way to where Jones lay on his back, bleeding onto the marble floor. Bane lightly bumped him with the toe of his boot, and Jones opened his pain-filled eyes to see his executioner looming above him.

            Near a hoarse whisper, Jones defiantly stated, “I’ll die before I talk.”

            In an unconcerned tone, Bane said, “I’m on your schedule, Captain,” and dropped to his knees atop the hapless officer. Bane would not sully his hands by throttling this one; instead his right knee pressed into the man’s neck. Weakly Jones attempted to shove Bane’s leg away, but he had no more the strength of a child, and Bane simply waited as life drained from the man’s bulging eyes.

            Umarov drew near, said, “There were people living upstairs.”

            “Round them up for judgment.” Bane got to his feet. Of course he already knew this information through Yemi. With angry disgust, he pointed to Jones, ordered, “And hang them where the world can see.”

            When he turned away, Barsad hurried up, brow wrinkled, perturbed. “The cop got away.”

            “How?” Bane growled.

            “He was protecting her,” Barsad said, leaning even closer. “Our men couldn’t take the chance of shooting at him when he was so close to her.”

            Something dark and ugly stirred the sour feeling that was already in Bane’s belly. _Someone else_ was protecting Talia, someone other than their brothers, other than _him_. Though, in truth, she needed no protection, the mere image that Barsad’s words brought to him fired his blood, made him long to kill Blake himself.

            “Find Gordon,” Bane growled accusingly at his lieutenant. “Pull whatever resources you require. It’s time we rein in the Commissioner and his merry band once and for all.”


	56. Chapter 56

            “Our sister has sent news,” Finn Donnell’s thin voice came over the phone when Bane answered it just after he had settled into bed.

            If the call did not have to do with Talia, Bane would have been irritated by the disturbance. The day had been a long one, one of only two remaining. He craved rest, something that increasingly eluded him the more time ticked off the countdown clock that he kept beside his bed and on his phone. In hopes of coaxing sleep nearer, he had just indulged in a stronger dose of analgesic, a weakness he was neither proud of nor would reveal to anyone.

            “What is it, Finn?”

            During the occupation of Gotham, Finn Donnell had maintained his civilian cover, one that allowed him to move freely among the populace and gather intelligence.

            “She has sufficiently gained enough trust from Blake that he’s going to take her to Gordon tomorrow as a volunteer. She will offer to help him mark the truck. She said Gordon’s force has dwindled to nearly nothing, but they’ve acquired Geiger counters.”

            Indeed, most of Gordon’s men had slowly given up on the plan to save their city and instead remained at home with their families to enjoy what little time they had left together. The thought of family always made Bane’s ravaged lips twist with irony and bitterness.

            “Gordon can mark the trucks however he can,” Bane growled. “Without other resources, such tagging will be pointless.”

            “Just to be safe, she will purposefully tag one of the empty trucks to throw off Gordon’s scent should he have resources we are unaware of to interfere with the detonation.”

            Bane nodded, his hand brushing over Melisande’s blanket. “Our sister is overly cautious, but I cannot fault her for that, with so few hours left. But I have no fear of Gordon any longer. It is too late for him.”

            Over the three weeks since the Special Forces had been hung from one of Gotham’s bridges, Bane’s men had doubled their efforts to locate Gordon, Blake, and the other insurgents, but Gordon had displayed an admirable ability to elude them, always just one step ahead.

            It was John Blake, however, whom Bane wanted just as much as Gordon. After Jones’s plot had been foiled, Blake had taken Talia into his own home to offer her shelter. Bane rankled at the thought of her living closely with the detective. Until now, Blake had kept from her the details of his involvement with Gordon and the other subversives. Obviously Talia had been working her charms upon the fool, wearing down his instinctive caution, or perhaps Blake was simply desperate with only two nights remaining before the death of his city and himself.

            Finn interrupted Bane’s dark thoughts and stayed his twitching fingers, “Are you saying you want me to discourage our sister from joining Gordon?”

            “No. Her plan is a sound one. Let it proceed. Tell her to inform us when Gordon and his men are marking the truck, and Barsad will be standing by to take them into custody.”

            After finishing his conversation with Finn, Bane sat up with a soft groan. Swinging his bare feet to the chilly floor, he remained a moment on the edge of the bed, a thumb and forefinger rubbing his tired eyes. Then he left the dark room and crossed the hallway to Barsad’s quarters.

            As always, Barsad’s door was open in order to keep an eye on his commander’s room should any threat or need arise. One dim light near Barsad’s bed was lit, surprising Bane, for he had expected his friend to be asleep by now. The bed, however, was empty, Barsad’s rifle propped against his nightstand. Just as Bane entered, he heard the toilet flush in the adjoining bathroom, and Barsad emerged in t-shirt and boxers. At the sight of Bane, his eyebrows raised.

            “Something wrong?”

            “No, but I just got off the phone with Finn. I have a task for you tomorrow.”

            Barsad sat on his bed and gestured to a nearby chair in invitation. The way he avoided his commander’s gaze piqued Bane’s curiosity and told him that something was troubling his lieutenant.

            Sitting, Bane relayed Finn’s news about Talia and her plan to offer assistance to Gordon. Barsad listened attentively, but Bane could easily see something else working behind the scenes in his friend’s mind.

            “You will take Talia into custody with Gordon and his men,” Bane said.

            “Her orders or yours?”

            “Mine. I want her close to us should you be able to get her out of the city before the blast.”

            Barsad looked away, frowning, his jaw clenching. “Yeah…about that…”

            “What is it, brother?”

            Barsad sighed and turned back to Bane with obvious effort. “She’s not going anywhere.”

            “Not willingly, no. You and I have already discussed this.”

            “Yes, we have. And the other day, she and I discussed it.”

            Bane scowled. “Why? You were not to share—”

            “I didn’t. She guessed it. Not too hard for her to do, you know. She knows you, Bane, for God’s sake.”

            “What did she say?”

            “She threatened me.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “She said she wouldn’t let me take her out of the city, that either she would kill me if I tried or that her men would kill me. She’s already given orders to them, to stop me if necessary.”

            With a small growl of displeasure, Bane stood from the chair and began to pace, fingers restless. This news did not completely surprise him. As Barsad said, Talia knew her protector well; she would have figured that he would not easily let her forfeit her life. But for her to threaten Barsad, to say she would kill the man who had served both of them so well for so long… Perhaps it had been a bluff, Bane allowed. He frowned, disturbed that he did not know for sure. Again he cursed Gotham’s effect on Talia.

            “What do you suggest I do now?” Barsad asked with quiet exasperation.

            Bane paced in silence for a moment longer, staring at the wood flooring, clasping his hands behind his back to keep his fingers still. “She is even more resolute than I expected,” he murmured at last, halting near a frosted window. “The fact that she threatened your life bespeaks something desperate. I don’t like it.”

            “Yeah,” Barsad grumbled, “I wasn’t too thrilled about it either.”

            “Don’t be angry with her, brother. This cursed city and Talia’s zeal for vengeance for her father have corrupted her in ways I don’t like to contemplate; this threat of hers makes that plain to me. You know you are dear to her, but the mission always comes first. You know that as a soldier of the League.”

            Wearily Barsad nodded. “Still took me by surprise. She meant it, too. It was plain to see in her eyes.”

            So, not a bluff. Bane felt a hollowness in his heart. “She has her father’s single-mindedness, and as Miranda Tate some of Gotham’s ruthlessness has increased her own, natural resolve. It’s a transition I am not wholly comfortable with, as you are aware.”

            “I’m sorry, Bane. I should have told you earlier; she talked to me yesterday, but I just wasn’t sure how to bring it up to you.” Barsad’s frown deepened. “I didn’t want to let you down.”

            “You have not let me down, brother.” Bane drew closer to his friend. “You believe Talia’s threat is not a hollow one, so I will not put you or her in a position to force her to act upon it.” He drew in a long breath to try to rally his strength. “Once she is in our custody, I will speak to her directly about this. If there is anyone she will listen to it is me, though I realize my influence on her is far, far less than it used to be.”

            Barsad nodded sadly. “She _has_ changed. I’ve seen it for a while, but I didn’t want to say anything to you.”

            “You should never hesitate to speak freely to me. I appreciate your desire to spare my feelings, but truly there is no need for it. I would rather be aware of all things when it comes to our sister.”

            “Maybe if Maysam spoke with her, especially now when Talia knows the end is so near…”

            “I doubt Talia will take such a call, and I would hesitate for either you or I to contact Maysam in order to encourage such communication between them. I would deeply regret having her connected to us in any way should our phone calls somehow be discovered by our enemies.”

            Barsad sighed. “You’re right, of course. Once we’re gone, the world will no doubt look for someone to take their revenge on. There’s nothing I’d regret more than for Maysam to suffer even more than just the loss of her grandchild…and all because of us.”

            “I feel the same way. So we agree that she must be left out of this, no matter what it may mean for Talia’s survival?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Very good.”

            Bane moved to the doorway where he paused. “Finn will contact you tomorrow when he hears from Talia about Gordon.”

            Barsad nodded, as if too tired to speak any longer.

            “Get some rest, brother. There will be no more time for it after tonight.”

#

            Bane knew Barsad’s remorse over being rendered impotent when it came to secreting Talia from Gotham would ensure that he capture Gordon and his men the next day. And Barsad did not disappoint a second time. When he reported the success of his mission in person, Barsad could not hide his smug grin from Bane. Bane’s only regret was that John Blake had not been with Gordon at the time of his arrest. But he dismissed his silly vendetta against the young detective. Besides, on his own, what could someone like Blake do to stop Gotham’s inevitable destruction?

            Together, Bane and Barsad headed the short distance through the biting cold to Crane’s makeshift courtroom to witness the sentencing of Gordon and his men. Barsad’s steps were light, and Bane was pleased to see that his friend’s gloominess of the night before had been alleviated by his success today. But what pleased Bane even more was the thought of seeing Talia.

            The courtroom had more than the usual number of spectators. No doubt word had spread that the police commissioner had finally been apprehended, and men who had suffered in Blackgate, thanks to Gordon’s monstrous lie, were there to see true justice meted out at last. As soon as Gordon and his co-conspirators were led in, those men erupted in shouts of triumph, fists waving, curses flying. Only the presence of Bane’s men kept them from laying hands on Gordon.

            Bane’s attention, however, was not upon Gordon. From where he stood in his usual spot, out of the way near a window, his yearning gaze went to Talia, and his heart skipped a beat. She remained close to Gordon, as if fearfully hoping the commissioner would protect her from the slathering, screaming hordes. Her clothing was dark—a pea coat over a shirt and slim-legged brown pants, that familiar, beautiful scarf with the pattern that reminded him of her mother’s blanket. She had pulled her hair behind her lovely, small ears, leaving the ends loose to tumble about her shoulders in a cascade of soft curls. The style made her appear much younger, her features so delicate, taking Bane back in time to her youth, specifically to his last night in the mountains before his banishment by Rā’s al Ghūl, when they had made love for the first time.

            As Miranda Tate was prodded into the center of the courtroom by Barsad’s men, her eyes swept about the space, still portraying fear and uncertainty. Their gazes met only long enough for her to portray even more alarm at the sight of Gotham’s ruler at the hearing. For his own part, Bane made sure that he kept his stare hard and cold, something he convincingly managed by conjuring the image of her sleeping with Bruce Wayne.

            With the clamor momentarily restrained, Doctor Crane, atop his mountainous perch at the far end of the room, proclaimed the charges against Gordon—espionage and attempted sabotage.

            “No lawyer, no witnesses?” Gordon responded, his voice echoing. “What sort of due process is this?”

            “Your guilt has been determined,” Crane said. “This is merely a sentencing hearing. Now what will it be—death or exile?”

            “Crane, if you think we’re going out onto that ice willingly, you have another thing coming.”

            Crane was unperturbed by Gordon’s defiance, pulled a flippant face, nodded. “Death, then?”

            “Looks that way.”

            “Very well.” Crane sobered with the coldness of a hardened killer. “Death,” he banged his gavel then paused dramatically before adding, “by exile.”

            The onlookers exploded with satisfied roars.

            Before any of the spectators could get ideas about roughing up Miranda Tate along with the male captives, Bane gestured to Barsad beside him, spoke loud enough for others to hear, “Bring her to me.”

            Barsad obeyed, and Miranda Tate was pulled by the arm toward her captor, wide eyes looking back over her shoulder toward Gordon, mouth open, steps resisting. Gordon saw this, but offered nothing, perhaps relieved that she at least would remain alive longer than he would and that her eventual death would not be as heinous as his.

            “What do you want with me?” Miranda demanded once she stood before him, leaning as far away as Barsad’s hold allowed. “Let me die with my friends. I am guilty of the same charges.”

            “Very noble, Miss Tate, but you have far more value to me alive,” Bane said, then nodded at Barsad to take her away, to the lower level of City Hall where other prisoners were being detained.

            “Let me go!” Miranda continued to protest as Barsad manhandled her out of the courtroom.

            Behind the mask, Bane smiled slightly, pleased with Talia’s convincing act. Her scent lingered behind, sifting easily through the grating of his apparatus. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, his smile growing, hidden from the world.


	57. Chapter 57

            The night was crisp and calm, but a thin veil of snow clouds shut out the stars. Standing atop City Hall where he came most every night to clear his head before retiring, Bane searched for a bold star to peek through the gray net of clouds and falling snow, thinking of the night long ago when he had secreted Melisande from her prison cell into the shaft and showed her the stars. The memory made him smile. They had sat so close that they touched each other, both afraid for her safety yet filled with the thrilling bravery and recklessness of youth that emboldened them to risk her being discovered out of her cell by other prisoners.

            “Something funny?” Barsad inquired as he drew close on the roof, as if eager for humor. He took a final pull on what remained of a cigarette before tossing its offensive nub to the ground and snuffing it under his boot.

            “No. I was merely thinking of something pleasant from long ago.”

            “Humph.” Barsad’s disappointed grunt made it clear that he knew his friend would not elaborate.

            Not wanting his reluctance to share to discourage his lieutenant on this last night together, Bane teased, “Do you have plans to visit our Cat tonight? It seems it has been some time since you have done so. Lose interest?”

            Barsad shrugged one shoulder. “Not in the mood.”

            “Ah, what is it they say—live today as if it were your last?” Bane gripped the straps of his protective vest beneath his gaping coat and adopted his familiar stance. “Why not indulge one final time, brother?”

            A mischievous spark brightened Barsad’s blue eyes. “Trying to get rid of me, are you?”

            Surprisingly, Bane felt his cheeks redden. “If you are intimating that I have romantic plans with a certain someone, you are mistaken. However, it is time you fetch her from that crowded rat hole and bring her upstairs. I will not have her spending her last night in such a place of squalor and degradation.”

            “I didn’t figure you would, but…” Barsad’s voice trailed oddly away as something caught his eye. He stepped around Bane as if to get a better view. “Ho-ly shit… Bane…”

            Bane turned to find Barsad pale-faced and agape, staring off toward the nearby river. Then he saw it. At first the incongruous sight was incomprehensible. The tower of one of Gotham’s bridges was alight, blazing like a strangely shaped beacon. But how could brick burn? And the flames seemed purposefully confined, their outline shaped almost like a…

            Bat.

            “Impossible,” the word slipped through the mask before he realized he had uttered the reaction. Immediately upon the heels of his thoughts of Batman came thoughts of Talia, causing him to quickly recover from his shock. He turned to Barsad. “Keep her close. He’ll come for her.”

            “But,” Barsad gestured toward the burning bat symbol, stammered, “you don’t seriously think it’s him, do you? Like you said, it’s impossible.”

            “I won’t take any chances. Retrieve Talia immediately and bring her to my quarters. I will contact Finn.”

#

            Leaving Barsad in her wake, Talia fairly flew into Bane’s room where he had just ended his phone call with Finn Donnell.

            “We have been betrayed,” she fairly snarled, “by that damned Kyle woman.”

            Her abrupt ferocity took Bane aback. This was not how he had hoped their reunion would go. Damn the Batman, if it were indeed him…

            “She’s responsible for this,” Talia continued. “We had him in our grasp.”

            Puzzled, Bane glanced at Barsad who had halted just inside the door, an agitated look on his face.

            Barsad explained, “Talia just told me that a couple of our mercs arrested Bruce Wayne just a short time ago.”

            Rage filled Bane. “Why wasn’t this reported to us?”

            “To them, he wasn’t a threat; he was only Bruce Wayne,” Barsad reminded him. “Not Batman, as we know him.”

            Keeping accusation from his voice, Bane turned to Talia who paced furiously.

            “You saw him?”

            “Yes. I spoke briefly with him before he and Fox were taken away by Catwoman,” she spat the moniker.

            “You were unable to get word to us?”

            “It was your men who arrested him. I assumed you were informed, and I was being watched too closely by the other prisoners to approach any of the guards to get word to you in case you weren’t aware.” Her fists clenched, and she whirled away from him.

            Bane watched her stalk about like a caged lioness, the sight both worrisome and intoxicating.

            “What did he say to you?” Bane asked.

            “There wasn’t much time for talk before Kyle arrived. He said he wouldn’t forget about me, the fool. I had the distinct impression that he allowed himself to be taken in order to find Fox and rescue him. They plan on reconnecting the core to the reactor. Obviously Selena Kyle was in on this the minute Wayne returned; he must have sought her out.”

            “So it would seem.” Bane gave Barsad a dark glance before approaching Talia. His bulk halted her pacing, and he gently yet firmly put his hands upon her shoulders. “Kyle and Fox are unimportant.”

            “How can you say that?”

            “Only Wayne has importance to us, to you. You were angry with me when I took him from you. Now fate has delivered him back here so you can have your revenge after all.”

            She frowned in befuddlement.

            “He told you that he would not forget you.” Bane smiled sadly. “Indeed, how could he? How could any man?”

            Surprisingly, her cheeks colored, and her beautiful long lashes lowered to hide her self-consciousness. “Bane…” His words had successfully defused her anger.

            Bane could not keep his fingers from brushing her cold cheek. “And so he will come back for you. He will come here. And we will crush him. This time, there will be no mercy.”

            “He could interfere with the bomb.”

            “The bomb is well-guarded, and time is running out. Besides, Fox showed you how to override the reactor, did he not?”

            His calming voice and rational words settled her even more; he could feel her relax beneath his touch.

            “Yes,” Talia said. “And he showed me how to activate the emergency flood as well.”

            Bane nodded his reassurance. “There, you see? We have nothing to fear. Contingencies are in place. Things will proceed as planned, and we will make Wayne regret ever returning to Gotham.” Remembering Barsad’s uneasy presence, he turned to his lieutenant. “You will send teams out to search for our wayward prisoners as well as Ms. Kyle. We will take no chances.”

            “Yes, sir.” With a glance at Talia, who nodded her agreement, Barsad left the room, closing the door behind him.

            When Bane turned back to Talia, she appeared more at ease and said, “Papa once told me that the sign of a great leader is calm amidst all storms.” She offered a melancholy smile. “One of your many attributes that I sometimes foolishly forget.”

            Bane returned her smile, longing to take her in his arms now that they were alone. “It is good to see you here, _habibati_ , here where we can speak freely and privately.” He hesitated. “Where Miranda Tate has no need to exist.”

            She surprised him by embracing him. “Forgive my outburst over our enemy’s escape. You’ve made me feel confident again, just like you always used to when we were together. I’d forgotten how good it feels to be near you, to feel assured and protected.”

            Bane held her close, afraid she would soon let go forever.

            “You restore my strength,” she continued.

            “And you mine,” he murmured into her hair, closing his eyes and breathing in her scent.

            “But do you think it wise having me here? If someone were to discover…they might suspect that Miranda Tate isn’t who she seems—”

            “No one knows you’re here except Barsad. And no one will be allowed in here. You will spend your last night in comfort, though as you can see the comforts are few.”

            She stepped back, smiled up at him. “Would those comforts include coffee?”

            “Certainly. I will set some to brew.” When he returned from retrieving water and put the glass pot in the coffee machine near his desk, he said, “I will sleep on the floor; you will take the bed.”

            Talia turned from staring out the window. “Nonsense.”

            She drifted over to a chair in front of his desk; he sat behind it, though he regretted the distance. For the first time, he wished he had not gotten rid of the leather couch that had resided in this room when he had first arrived, for he could have slept there instead of on the floor. Of course there was the bed, but he would try his best not to entertain such thoughts unless Talia initiated an invitation. And he doubted that would happen. After all, she had not followed her comment of, “Nonsense,” with an alternative to the floor.

            She shrugged out of her pea coat and draped it over the back of her chair. “Tomorrow I will shed the trappings of Miranda Tate and wear my tunic to reflect who I truly am. It’s here, isn’t it?”

            “Yes, of course.”

            “Thank you for seeing to that. Perhaps you think it silly of me to be concerned with what I wear tomorrow, but—”

            “I do not. It is a fitting garment. It’s what Talia al Ghūl would wear, not Miranda Tate.”

            She gestured to his coarse, open-neck brown shirt. “That’s like the ones you wore at the monastery under your tunic.”

            “Yes. It reflects the League’s simplicity and its rejection of all extravagance. And it reminds me of those days and those who lived with us in the mountains,” his voice hardened, “and those who died there.”

            She gestured toward the bed. “I see you have Mama’s blanket.”

            “I considered sending it to your grandmother, but…I found that I could not bear to part with it.”

            “Of course not. I’m glad you’ve kept it.” They fell into a brief, somewhat awkward silence before Talia continued, “It’s hard to believe that the final day is almost upon us. So many years of preparation, so much hard work and sacrifice by so many, especially you.”

            “I was merely doing my duty.”

            “And no one could have done it more magnificently. I wish you wouldn’t deprive the League of such a leader. You know you have my blessing to leave.”

            “But I will not.”

            “I know,” she murmured, then waited for him to banish his self-consciousness over her flattery and look at her. “I’m sure Barsad told you of our conversation about forcing me out of the city.”

            “He did.” Bane frowned his displeasure. “Your threat wounded him.”

            “I saw no other way to convince him. But you must know I would not kill him, nor would I truly order our brothers to do so, but I would stop him by any other means short of death.”

            “Nothing would make me happier than to know the two of you were far from here tomorrow. If you wish to repay my services which you have so lavishly praised, won’t you do this for me? This one last thing?”

            “You know I won’t, Bane. Please don’t ask me to forsake the honor of martyrdom.” She tilted her head. “Is that why you brought me here, to secret me out of Gotham either by agreement or force?”

            “I brought you here for the reasons I already told you. I will not have you spend your last night downstairs on a cold, hard floor amongst the rabble of Gotham. And if anyone does learn of your whereabouts, they will only think the despicable masked terrorist is holding you hostage as a way to shield himself from further threats.” He chuckled softly.

            But Talia did not reflect his mirth. Instead her gaze drifted across his mask. “I wish the world knew you as I do, knew all that you have survived and sacrificed for another human being, a child that was not your own.”

            Again, unprecedented sheepishness caused him to look away from her. “I care not what the world thinks of me, good, bad or indifferent.”

            “I know.”

            “Your opinion is the only one that matters to me.”

            She smiled coyly. “What about Barsad?”

            “Well,” he allowed a small grin, “most of the time.”

            “It’s always been comforting to me over these last years to know that he was with you and that he will be with you tomorrow.”

            “He is invaluable.”

            “I was afraid after Temujin that you wouldn’t allow another man to be close to you.”

            The old pain pierced Bane’s heart. “Temujin…”

            “Look.” Talia dipped a hand inside one of her coat pockets and brought forth the tiny ivory elephant that Temujin had given her so long ago. She set it on Bane’s desk. “You have Mama’s blanket, and I have Jin’s elephant. They are both here with us in spirit.”

            “Of course. They give us strength. We should not be prideful and think we get it strictly from within ourselves.”

            “There is one more talisman I require. I gave it to Yemi to safeguard before Captain Jones met with me.”

            “Your father’s knife?”

            “Yes.”

            “I will have it brought to you by morning.”

            “Thank you.”

            When the coffee had brewed, Bane poured her a cup and set it before her, then returned to his chair. Smiling with infinite pleasure, he watched her gingerly drink.

            “How I’ve missed you,” he said. “You may think this odd, but sometimes I almost long for our days in the pit, when I was whole and you were but an innocent, when we knew nothing of this corrupted world. Things were simple.”

            “I understand.” As if suddenly remembering something, she set her cup on the desk. “Barsad said Hans contacted you shortly after the occupation began.”

            Bane nodded. “He did.”

            “And he tried to dissuade you from your path.”

            “Of course.”

            “I was glad to know he hasn’t forgotten you, and it was noble of him to take the risk of contacting you directly, however misguided his advice may have been.”

            “He is a good man, one I never forgot. Him or Abrams.”

            “Did he speak of Abrams?”

            “Yes. He expressed Abrams’s similar feelings on the matter of our revolution.”

            “I’m glad you were not swayed. I know you respect them both very much.”

            “Indeed.”

            They passed two peaceful hours in similar conversation, reminiscing over good times and bad, retelling stories of their days at the monastery, of old friends like Akar and Temujin as well as her father. Bane noticed that she was careful not to glorify her father overly much in front of him, not when their memories included the terrible day of his excommunication.

            “How different things would’ve been had Papa not made such a horrific mistake. If you had been there when Bruce Wayne was recruited, you would have seen through Wayne’s weakness. You would have defeated him then; you would’ve killed him when he tried to betray Papa and our brothers who had so welcomed him into their fraternity. And this day could have been Papa’s triumph, as it should have been. I am a poor substitute.”

            “You are nothing of the sort,” Bane growled. “You are a worthy daughter. Look at all you have accomplished.”

            Talia frowned. “I regret that my accomplishment will cost you your life. My father wronged you, grievously, unforgivably. You have suffered enough.”

            “To live without you would be a fate worse than anything I have yet endured.”

            “You say that, you believe that, but perhaps you’re mistaken. Perhaps with me gone, without the obligation you feel toward me because of Mama—”

            “It is not an obligation, Talia,” he bristled. “It is a choice. One I would make over and over, if needed.”

            “I know you would. But I wish it wasn’t so.”

            “I regret nothing. You have been the joy of my life, you and your mother and Maysam. It has been my honor to serve all of you, to love all of you.”

            “But what you’ve received in return is inadequate compared to what you deserve. You deserve happiness, _habibi_. Perhaps with me gone, you could find that.”

            An unexpected lump rose in his throat, for she had not used the Arabic term of endearment in a long, long while.

            “With you gone, Talia, I would find only misery. Now, please. No more talk of such things. You would not want to make me angry on our last night together, would you?” he threatened idly.

            Talia frowned. “As you wish.” She turned the ivory elephant over and over in her hands. A companionable silence stretched out for a moment before she continued, “I don’t want the morning to come. It’s been so nice just sitting here alone together. I’ve been Miranda Tate for so long, talking to Gotham’s boorish elite that I almost forgot how pleasant conversation can be, especially with you, my friend. I feel like I’m…home.”

            He smiled. “It pleases me to hear you say that, _habibati_. I feel the same.” And if he had his way, he would take her far from here this very night and preserve her life. But he knew she would never forgive him if he tried. It would be one more transgression he had perpetrated against her.

            Troubled, she studied him. “The mask… Does it continue to alleviate your pain well? And tell me the truth please.”

            “It is sufficient.”

            Skeptically Talia cocked an eyebrow. “Sufficient?”

            “Yes. When it is removed, however, I admit that it takes much stronger doses of morphine than in times past. Nothing I didn’t expect, however; it is the nature of the beast. Ironically I am cursed with the same addiction as our old friend Doctor Assad.”

            Talia’s lips twisted with deep regret. “Soon,” she said near a whisper, “you won’t have to suffer anymore. Back when you were freed from the pit, I regret that you didn’t allow Papa to take you to a hospital. So much of your suffering could have been alleviated or perhaps eliminated altogether. You could have lived in Germany with Hans, and you never would have been wounded by my father. You could have lived a normal life.”

            “As I said, I have no regrets. Neither should you. They are worthless, now more than ever.”

            She nodded and stared at her hands in her lap, allowing him a quiet moment to drink in her beauty. She had spoken of pain, he reflected, but if she only knew that the pain most acute to him had little to do with his physical injuries and everything to do with his separation from her over these past years. Their time together now offered more relief to his suffering than any syringe of morphine ever could.

            “I had forgotten how stimulating it is to speak with a woman,” he said. “It seems that I have been with only men for so long that I hadn’t even realized the shortcomings of such exclusivity.”

            “Well, I assure you, the women I’ve spent my time with here in Gotham had little of real interest and importance to talk about. Endless prattle at parties and meetings and charity functions. Perhaps that’s why I always enjoyed my talks with Finn and why someone like Dominic meant so much to me. There are so few engaging people in this wretched city.”

            Bane winced inwardly at her mention of Dominic LePage and the rift his death had caused between them, but he had no desire to dredge any of that up or admit to her that her suspicions of his part in LePage’s death were well-founded. No, he wanted to forget the pain he had caused her, especially now when they had mere hours left.

            He caught her yawning, though she tried her best to suppress it and hide it behind a hand.

            “You are tired, _habibati_. I won’t keep you up any longer with my pointless ramblings.” He stood from his chair to encourage her to do the same.

            “Nonsense,” she said around a second yawn. “I’m used to staying up late.”

            Playfully he tsked at her and came around the desk to pull her chair back. “There is no use in fighting it, my dear, and there is no rudeness in retiring. It will give me great pleasure to watch you sleep.”

            Talia stood. “What, you aren’t going to sleep? Barsad told me you haven’t been taking care of yourself.”

            Bane chuckled and guided her by the shoulders toward the bed. “Let’s not concern ourselves right now with Barsad’s mother hen tendencies. You should not believe everything he says.”

            He encouraged her to sit on the edge of the bed, and the fact that she so willingly obeyed confirmed his belief in her fatigue. Kneeling down, he removed her stylish dark boots the way he used to remove her crude prison footwear. His hands lingered upon her delicate ankles, briefly massaged them. She closed her eyes and smiled.

            “I still remember how you used to tell me stories when we would lie together every night after Mama died,” Talia murmured. “Sometimes I would be so sleepy that I couldn’t even comprehend what the story was about, but I didn’t care. I just loved to listen to your voice and feel your strong arms around me, keeping me warm.” She opened her eyes, revealing her memories there. “Will you share my bed like that again? Or is it cruel of me to ask?”

            “There is nothing that would please me more, especially if it will help you rest.”

            “It will.”

            For a brief moment she allowed her guard down, and he saw not the confident, hell-bent Talia al Ghūl but instead that small, vulnerable child who still lurked somewhere deep inside her, eternally there since the day she had been born into the pit.

            Bane removed his shirt. “Here. Wear this to sleep in. You will not feel comfortable in those clothes, nor should you be naked, not unless you want to torment me.” He offered a teasing smile to hide the brutal truth of his desires.

            She frowned and touched his mask. “Bane—”

            “There is no need to apologize. You are tired, as am I,” he lied. He rested one hand on her knee. “If you would like to take a shower before you retire—”

            “No, I’m too tired.”

            “Very well.”

            His fingers longed to remove her clothing for her, but he stood to give her space, moving to a dresser where he changed into a simple pair of linen drawstring pants. Turning back to her, he found her in nothing but his shirt, removing the pins that held her hair back from her face. Tendrils fell forward to frame her sculpted cheekbones as she trailed her fingers through the tresses like combs, restoring a semblance of tidiness. Only after summoning every ounce of self-restraint that his training with the League had taught him, Bane approached her. His shirt was ridiculously large on her, but she had the ability to make even that garment look alluring. And the fact that it was his made the sight more appealing. When she had first left for Gotham, he had felt such an enormous sense of loss, knowing she would never again truly belong to him, but seeing her now in his shirt restored some of his feelings of ownership. Again he thought of that little girl in the pit, clad in sagging rags yet somehow looking as bright and alive to him as the sun itself.

            Sleepily Talia smiled up at him with a hint of apology, for she had seen the unabashed erection that fought against the confines of his pants. He returned her smile and reached past her to retrieve her mother’s blanket. Pulling the comforter back, he spread Melisande’s blanket beneath it so it would be against them as they lay. Then he held the bedclothes up so she could slide under them and be close to the wall while he situated himself between her and the vulnerability of the door. As he settled, her scent embraced him in a torturous web, and he had to swallow a groan of desire.

            He lay on his back to keep his offending member away from her and opened his right arm to her. She cuddled close, smiling and producing a small hum of contentment, as if they had been doing this every night for years. With her head on his chest, she rested her hand on his substantial pectoral as he gently drew her mother’s blanket over them. The room was chilly, but he knew his furnace-like body would soon warm her. Since the pit, he could never bear the thought of her being cold.

            Talia sighed and drowsily said, “When you first came to the mountains with Papa and me, remember how he forbade me from sleeping with you but I would sneak into your room regardless?”

            “Of course. You were always courting trouble, my little mouse.”

            “I never told you, but for a long time then I had nightmares. I begged Papa to let me sleep with you because I knew I wouldn’t have them if I was with you.”

            “What were the nightmares about, _habibati_?”

            “About you, about us being separated. And about what happened to you when I escaped.”

            “That is why I always tried to keep you out of my room when Choden would remove my bandages and treat me.”

            “It wasn’t the sight of your wounds; it was my part in them.”

            “Talia—”

            “I know,” she stopped his familiar words of comfort and dismissal over her feelings of responsibility for his injuries. “But that’s how I felt.”

            And still do, Bane thought ruefully.

            “Papa and Xing Lao helped me by teaching me meditation.”

            “Why didn’t you tell me then that you were having such troubles?”

            “Papa didn’t want me to. He knew it would upset you, and you were so sick then. He made me promise that I wouldn’t tell you. He told me I had to be strong and learn to deal with things on my own, that you would not always be there for me.”

            Talia’s words made Bane wonder if perhaps Rā’s al Ghūl had planned to get rid of him from the outset.

            “The nightmares stopped for a while, but then when you were initiated and would go away on assignments, they would come back, the ones about us being separated. I had thought maybe you didn’t want me around anymore, after you had started your new life.”

            “You know that wasn’t true. I hated leaving you, every single time. Thinking of you kept me focused during my missions, helped me stay alive so I could come back to you, so I could protect you.”

            “I know. That’s what Temujin and Akar kept telling me, and after a while I believed them, and the nightmares went away. But I’ll never forget how afraid I was that I would lose you.”

            Bane stroked her hair. “But you never have, _habibati_. I will be with you till the last.”

            She settled even closer, the coarse shirt depriving him of the feel of her skin but not the subtle weight of her breasts against him.

            “I don’t deserve you, Bane.”

            “You deserve more than me.”

            “The life I’ve led here…I know it’s hurt you.”

            “You did what was necessary. There is nothing for me to feel hurt about.”

            She sighed in capitulation, her warm breath tickling his nipple, her fingers now absently caressing Melisande’s blanket.

            “No more regrets, _habibati_ ,” he murmured. “Rest now.”

            Talia shifted so she could look into his eyes, a million words in her blue depths. Her fingers trailed over the front of the mask, and she kissed it, a brief but loving caress, then she sank back down against him, sighed again and closed her eyes.

            “You will be here when I wake?” she whispered as she began to drift off.

            “Yes, my love. Always.”

            And once she had slipped away into sleep, he surreptitiously turned on his side and drew her into the curve of his body, his arms fast around her, holding her safe and close as he had so many endless nights in the pit.


	58. Chapter 58

            The night was both the longest and shortest of Bane’s life. He slept little. Though the wonderful warmth and proximity of the woman he loved tried to lull him, he not only feared that his snoring would bother Talia should he sleep too deeply, but more importantly he wanted to watch her, to drink in the sight of her as long as he could before the sun rose on their fateful final day.

            Talia slept well, and he liked to believe that he was the reason for it. With profound satisfaction, he enjoyed knowing that he would be the last man to share her bed, no matter how chaste the time had been. Though he surely would not have rejected any overtures had Talia enticed him last night, he found their abstinence fitting in a way, harkening back to their origins when they had been innocents. After all, those origins were what had ultimately led to this very day and its inevitable outcome. And though he had no delusions about her loving him the way he loved her, the fact that she had not offered herself sexually to him showed not a lack of affection but instead a deep respect. If she had made love to him after all this time, after Dominic LePage and Bruce Wayne, they both would have known it was more out of pity or regret than anything else. Bane wanted neither from her. He required no carnal consolation prize. Simply being with her was enough.

            As dawn neared, he knew he should get up, but he was loath to disrupt Talia’s slumber, figuring that this had been her most restful night in five months at least. During her sleep she had entwined their bodies, inadvertently wrapping them together in the cocoon of her mother’s blanket. If he moved, he might awaken her; to crawl out of bed altogether would surely do the same. With a capitulating sigh, he remained, cursing his morning erection.

            Eventually it was Barsad who disturbed both of them, poking his head inside the door and loudly whispering for Bane’s attention. Talia stirred in his arms, softly moaned a sleepy protest.

            “I must get up, _habibati_ ,” Bane whispered, wishing away the mask so he could kiss her. “I’m sorry I have awakened you. Sleep a bit more, if you wish.”

            Still mostly asleep, she uttered a small, unhappy sound, and nuzzled his neck. “Stay,” she murmured dreamily. “Don’t leave me.”

            “There’s nothing I want more than to stay with you, little mouse. But our brother seems rather insistent.”

            “Tell him…to go away.”

            Bane chuckled. “He won’t. Persistence is his middle name.” He slipped his pillow beneath her tousled head and caressed her warm cheek. “Sleep, _habibati_. There is still time.”

            Then he struggled his way out of bed as seamlessly as possible and crept across the dark room. Barsad backed into the hall. Light from Barsad’s room spilled against his back, throwing his haggard face into shadow, but Bane could detect concern in his eyes.

            Quietly Bane asked, “What is it, brother?”

            “I heard back from Refai. He confirms that Wayne escaped the pit.”

            “And the rest of the prisoners?”

            “The ropes had been tossed down from the mouth of the shaft. They must have climbed after Wayne.”

            “All of them, even the doctor?”

            “Refai says there was no one there.”

            Bane nodded with derision. “Of course Wayne would have liberated our enemies.” He scowled. “Has he been located?”

            “No. We haven’t been able to find him, him or Fox. But some of our men were ambushed last night near the outflow pipe south of Ackerman Park, and _someone_ blew a hole through the rubble at the mouth of the tunnel there, giving the cops an escape route.”

            Bane’s fingers twitched. “Yes, only the Batman would have such firepower capabilities.” He rallied his resolve. “No matter. Let the police come. They can’t stop us from detonating the bomb.” He glanced over Barsad’s shoulder into his room, to the barely disturbed bed. “Contact all units in our sector. Have the men assemble on Grand.”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “And send someone downstairs to fetch breakfast for me and our sister.”

            When Bane returned to Talia, he found her awake but still in bed beneath her mother’s blanket. She raised herself on one elbow as he sat on the edge of the mattress. The gaping neck of his shirt that she wore allowed him an appreciated view of her perfect breasts.

            “Is something the matter?” she asked.

            He rested his hand on her hip. “We have received confirmation of Bruce Wayne’s escape from the pit. And now it would seem the Batman has freed Gotham’s subterranean police force. No doubt they will be marching on City Hall as soon as they can organize themselves. So you must get up, my dear. I have ordered breakfast. Why don’t you shower? By the time you are done, your food should be here.”

            “Are you going to eat with me?”

            “If you wish, I will dine with you.” He would need sustenance to bolster his strength for his confrontation with his nemesis. “Then I must get downstairs to greet our friends should they show themselves. You will remain inside with one of our brothers to guard you.” He glanced at the countdown clock on his nightstand.

            Talia scowled. “I can’t confront Wayne if I am up here.”

            “I will find him, and I will bring him to you once I have broken him again. You will have the honor of dispatching him after you reveal your true self and the detonator that will cost him his city and his life.”

            Her smile chilled the room. “How I long to see the look on his face when he tastes my father’s blade.”

            “As do I. Now, _habibati_ , you must get up. Time is growing short.”

#

            When Talia emerged from the bathroom, Bane saw that she was dressed for the day. Her hair was pulled back and French braided, her muted make-up accentuating her eyes. She wore her tunic made of ribbed, coarse brown fabric similar to that of his shirt. A narrow leather belt, which bore two buckles, was wrapped twice around her and drew attention to her tiny waist. Beautiful embroidery on the collar included subtle red flowers, like blooming poppies, as well as subdued gray and brown hues. The trim narrowed below the v-neckline as it trailed downward to the hem. The same design graced the broad cuffs which nearly covered her graceful hands. Her matching silk scarf hid any view of her shirt. As the day before, she wore slim-fit brown pants, almost leggings, with her short boots.

            “Just in time,” Bane said, gesturing to his desk which served as their dining table. On it, covered plates with a light breakfast of eggs, bacon, toast, and tea awaited.

            He, too, had dressed, wearing his usual militaristic attire except his protective vest which sat nearby.

            As Talia drew near, he held her chair for her and exchanged a welcoming smile. After she had sat, he went around the desk to his chair. There he removed his mask; he had injected the smallest dose of morphine to get him through the meal; he had purposefully done so before Talia could emerge from the bathroom, for he did not want to hazard seeing her sadness over his medicinal requirement.

            As he removed the covers from the dishes, he said, “I assumed you would not want a large repast.”

            “No, this is perfect.” With teacup in hand, she nodded to the pot. “That’s the one _Jiddah_ gave you, isn’t it?”

            “Indeed, it is.”

            “And the cozy, did you make it?”

            “Yes, I have maintained my hobby. It has given me much solace over these past five months.”

            Talia touched the crocheted cozy. “It’s lovely, Bane. It amazes me how your big hands can make such delicate things.”

            “Thank you.” He picked up his own cup. “I’m afraid I cannot linger long here, _habibati_. Duty calls.”

            “Yes, for both of us.”

            They fell silent for a short time as they began to eat. When Bane felt Talia’s attention upon him, he looked up from his food. Unexpectedly his face colored as he considered her final view of his damaged visage. He began to eat faster so he could soon hide the sight from her, but she reached over to place her hand upon his, halting his fork.

            “Remember when you first came to the League?” she asked softly. “You wouldn’t eat with anyone, not even me. You were afraid of the reactions of our brothers, of me.”

            “It was cowardly on my part.”

            “No, not at all. You were so young, and you didn’t know anyone then. You were conditioned from the pit to believe that any physical defect was a sign of weakness that others would exploit. And of course you thought you were sparing our brothers from something you believed to be unpleasant.”

            “It was Choden who convinced me to finally remove the mask to eat in the common room with the others. He reminded me that in their line of work most of them had seen sights much worse.”

            “Choden was a wise soul.” She picked at her eggs. “I’m glad we can at last avenge him today.”

            “Indeed. Him and so many others.”

            “Are you concerned about the police?”

            “Not at all. We are talking about men who have been living underground with limited rations for five months in the dead of winter. They will be weak. And what leadership do they have? Foley has been reduced to cowering in his home. No, my dear, they will be nothing but rabble, unorganized and weak. Our men and firepower, including the Tumblers, will make short work of them. And though we must assume Gordon escaped those fools down by the river who were incapacitated by the Batman, any further effort on his part will be nullified by the knowledge Fox provided you.”

            “And Wayne? If he climbed the shaft, he must have regained his health. But how? I thought you had broken his back?”

            Bane tried to hide his scowl. “I suspect our old friend Doctor Assad had a hand in Wayne’s recovery and no doubt his escape as well. That is the thanks you get for having pity on him all these years. I should have killed him when I delivered Wayne.”

            “Surely Assad never would take the risk to defy your orders.”

            “Apparently he was confident in Wayne’s ability to make the climb if healthy and facilitate everyone’s escape. And having seen the coverage on television of Gotham’s siege, perhaps Assad assumed I would be too dead to track him down after he betrayed us.”

            Talia frowned. “I can’t really blame him, though; can you? Perhaps it had been a mistake to condemn the doctor to the pit all these years. If we had freed him—”

            “He did not deserve freedom, then or now,” Bane nearly snapped. “What he did was unforgivable. Accident or not, he should have had his head about him, especially about something as crucial as the door lock.”

            She reached for his hand again. “You know I understand your feelings on the matter, but if not for me, Assad wouldn’t have even been in Mama’s cell that day.”

            “As usual, you assume his blame,” Bane grumbled, “instead of allowing it to rest where it truly should.” Reluctantly he withdrew his hand from beneath hers as he wiped his mouth with a linen napkin. “I must go. I have lingered too long as it is.” He reached for the mask.

            “Wait.” Talia’s hand went to the apparatus. When Bane looked at her in bemusement, she said, “Allow me.”

            She glided around the desk to stand next to where he remained seated, but she did not immediately pick up the mask. Instead she smiled mildly at him and took his battered face in her hands. Her thumbs caressed his scars and his cheeks, and all of his indignation and agitation vanished. For that brief moment, nothing else mattered, not the scars, the pain, or the mask. No other person existed in the world; it was just the two of them.

            “Thank you,” Talia whispered, “for making it possible for my father’s destiny to be fulfilled, and for giving me the honor of vengeance upon our enemy.”

            Bane could say nothing, too consumed by the power of her blue eyes, those eyes that were so much more like her father’s than her mother’s, in every way. Then she kissed his damaged mouth with the gentlest touch before resting her forehead against his as they had so often done as a gesture of love since he had first donned the intrusive mask. There were no words to be said, none were needed.

            Tenderly, Talia fastened the mask into place. Then she kissed his forehead and embraced him, holding him gently against her bosom as his arms slipped around her. A long moment passed before he reluctantly pulled back from her and stood. Talia retrieved his support belt and protective vest before he could, and helped him into them.

            “I feel like a squire preparing a knight for battle,” she said with a demure smile, “like those in the stories you used to tell me when I was a little girl.”

            “Well,” Bane smiled, “no knight ever had a squire so beautiful.”

            Talia gave a small, dismissive laugh as she finished with the buckles. “Your coat…”

            “I will get it, _habibati_. It is a great beast of a thing, too heavy for you to place over my shoulders. But thank you.” As he shrugged into his shearling coat, he said, “You must finish your meal and enjoy it. I will send one of our brothers in shortly, and he will remain with you. Remember, do not reveal yourself prematurely. I will deal with the Batman when he shows himself.”

            “I shall watch you. You deprived me of witnessing Wayne’s defeat in the sewers. I’ll enjoy seeing you destroy him today.”

            “It will give me great pleasure and strength to know you are nearby, watching.”

            She embraced him a final time. Bane held her as long as he dared, closing his eyes and breathing her in, allowing his sexual frustration to feed and thus provide even more fuel for the rage he would vent upon the man who had defiled her.

            “I love you, _habibati_ ,” he whispered.

            Talia gave him a final squeeze. “I love you, too.” She stepped back, trying to hide the hint of moisture in her eyes.

            Bane smiled to give her strength, a gesture that brightened her a bit. Then, with a final touch upon her cheek, he left her behind.


	59. Chapter 59

            Bane made one last visit to the City Hall command post. All was quiet there. Only one man was on duty, manning communications. The first vestiges of morning light streamed weakly through a window to fall on the merc’s weary face. When Bane entered, the man had respectfully gotten to his feet.

            “You are to destroy the equipment immediately,” Bane ordered. “And burn all documents. Do not leave your post until you have done so. Do you understand?”

            With a puzzled look, the merc stammered, “Yes, sir.”

            Of course the fool would be bemused by the orders; after all, most of the mercenaries recruited by the League for this operation knew nothing about the true goal. They had been told that Gotham would be held for ransom, that the U.S. government would eventually acquiesce to their demands, and when that occurred the mercs would share in a hell of a payday and their employer would help them escape from Gotham. No doubt the communications man longed to ask if the orders to destroy the CP signified that the government was giving in at last and the operation was soon to end. But of course the merc had not the nerve to pose such an impertinent question of his commander before Bane left the room and started for the elevators.

            The impending detonation of the bomb made his orders to the mercenary superfluous, but a lifetime of caution caused Bane to be extra diligent. As flawless as he believed the League’s plans to be, the fact remained that both Gordon and the Batman were still at large. If something was to go wrong and the explosion did not wipe them from the face of the earth, he needed to make sure important information was obliterated.

            When the elevator doors opened, he found Barsad alone inside.

            “I was coming to get you,” he said in a voice that betrayed the elevation of his pulse. “The cops are coming down the street _en_ _masse_.”

            “Are our men in place to meet them?” Bane stepped into the elevator and pressed the lobby button.

            “Yes.”

            “Very well.” Bane spoke with no more emotion than he had while talking to the merc in the CP. “I will give the order for the attack.”

            The portico was crowded with his men, all armed to the teeth, stoic and prepared to defend their headquarters. Most did not look at Bane and Barsad as they came into their midst. Instead their dutiful attention was aimed down Grand Street, toward the enemy. A gentle snow fell as if in a snow globe, like the one Bane had once bought for Talia when he had been on one of his first missions with the League, with Temujin. The snowfall was half-hearted at best; it would not last, for the sun was rising beyond the tall buildings, throwing faint, long shadows. Bane breathed deeply of the frigid air, reveled in the invigoration it provided.

            The rumble of a Tumbler and the deep-throated shouts and howls of his men massed down below on the street, facing the approaching police, filled the morning with unearthly noise, bouncing off the concrete buildings and echoing down the manmade canyon. After five months of siege, with little of sustaining interest to amuse them, the mercs were primed for some action and bloodshed. The confidence of well-fed, well-armed soldiers with a charismatic leader surged through them.

            From a bullhorn, one of Bane’s officers warned the police, “Disperse! Disperse or be fired upon!”

            Two more Tumblers arrived from either side of a cross street, halting as a shield in front of Bane’s advancing ranks of gun waving mercenaries. Many eyes turned Bane’s way, and he recognized the fire of pride and respect there…and perhaps a touch of fear, for they would not want to fail in front of him.

            Bane, however, had no plans to stay and watch the slaughter; he had made an appearance only to offer his fighters confidence and inspiration. It would all be over in a matter of minutes, for the Gotham police were badly outgunned. He wanted to return to the CP and make sure his orders were being carried out swiftly and efficiently there. Once the gunfire began, he did not want his communications officer to become distracted.

            He stood there now, thumbs casually hooked in his vest, unarmed as usual but with Barsad standing on his left, automatic rifle in hand. His friend’s face showed some concern at the dark blue wave of hundreds of police officers marching slowly but resolutely their way. At the front of the dense ranks strode one man in full dress uniform, the morning light accentuating the gold braid on his left shoulder. Gordon? Bane peered closer. No. Foley. Well, the man had balls after all.

            Bane figured the meddlesome John Blake was somewhere behind Foley. Well, if the two were not struck down by bullets, they would soon be turned to ash by the bomb. They and their comrades would never again lift their weapons.

            One of the Tumblers activated its turret gun, the double-barrel muzzle pivoting toward the insurgents.

            In a dismissive tone, without raising his voice, Bane said to Barsad, “Open fire,” and began to turn away as his lieutenant lifted a signaling arm to their troops.

            A sudden mechanical roar took everyone by surprise, including Bane who wheeled at the sound, just in time to see the Bat swoop down and disable one Tumbler’s gun with a cannon blast. Then the oddly-shaped black vehicle flew off down Grand, as nimble as the creature it was named after, speeding right over the heads of the cheering policemen. Ignited with sudden hope, the blue wave came crashing toward Bane’s men who in turn leaped forward like water breaking through a dam. Pistol shots and automatic gunfire erupted, blending with the animal-like war cries of the men.

            Police and mercenaries collided, no time to reload weapons, time only to attack and defend hand-to-hand, a swirling river of violence amidst the placid, drifting snowflakes.

            Bane took in the scene, Barsad fidgeting beside him and urging, “You should go back inside.”

            “I will do nothing of the sort. The Batman will come.”

            “He’ll come, all right, flying back in the Bat with guns blazing. You saw how he took out that Tumbler.”

            “No, he will come on foot, for our sister. He made a promise to her…just as I have.”

            “Dammit, Bane. You can protect her better inside. Wait for him there. Too much lead flying around out here.”

            “My men will not see me cower inside, as if I fear the Batman and his flying contraption. You may withdraw, if you wish. I prefer you are with her rather than with me.”

            “Like hell. I’m not going to abandon my post.”

            “Very well, brother. Then shall we wade into the fray?”

            Bane’s calm voice, raised just enough to be heard over the battle, betrayed little of the rage boiling within him, screaming for release, fired by the sight of his enemy’s flying machine. His fists clenched in anticipation, his muscles tensing beneath his heavy coat, his blood heated and racing.

            The fighting had consumed even the portico now, roiling around them, but no one among them was brave enough to confront Bane directly. Together he and Barsad descended the steps. He needed to find the Batman; his fury demanded release. Bruce Wayne’s escape from the pit had humiliated him; he would make the insolent pup regret it. Then he would take him to Talia and throw him at her feet, and Wayne would realize the enormity of his failure.

            At the base of the steps someone charged them from the left, and Barsad tried to strong-arm the man aside. The attacker drew Barsad away, sucked him into the maelstrom, as another cop came directly at Bane. Without hesitation, Bane grabbed the policeman with both hands and head-butted him, knocking the assailant, senseless, to the pavement. Another cop dove at him, but Bane ducked under the man’s guard, latched onto him and flung him away like so much trash.

            Bane removed his burdensome, confining coat. A policeman tried to take advantage of this momentary vulnerability, but Bane was prepared, stopping the smaller man by grabbing him by the hair like a spoiled child. Just then another cop came at Bane, but he drove the man back with a boot to the gut, then slammed the man still in his clutches, face first, into his upward driving knee. Others followed, but none could stand against Bane. They were insects to him, to be swatted out of his vision so he could see what he really wanted to see. And soon he was rewarded.

            Out of the melee came a tall man in black, the pointed false ears of the bat cowl an incongruous sight amidst the police uniforms and military garb of the fighters. Batman stood for a moment in a small circle of calm, the battle raging around him and Bane but reaching neither of them. Seeing his enemy in full daylight gave Bane pause, for he could not recall ever seeing Batman operate beyond the cloak of night. The Caped Crusader was breathing hard from his struggle through the conflict; he had already wasted some of his strength. Bane would not give him time to recover.

            Inclining his head imperiously, Bane gave his nemesis a snide smile as he mocked, “So you came back to die with your city.”

            “No,” Batman rasped, “I came back to stop you.”

            Bane threw the first punch, but Batman blocked the blow then knocked Bane back with a two-handed uppercut. Instantly recovering, Bane swung again. With a speed lacking in their sewer fight, Batman deflected the blow. Furious, Bane connected with a left to the face, followed by a low blow with a sledge-like right. Another left to the cowl sent Batman staggering away. A merciless juggernaut, Bane delivered several unanswerable punches, driving his foe back to the steps of City Hall. A sideways kick to the mid-section knocked Batman onto the steps, but he caught himself from falling and scrambled to the top of the first flight, his long cape swirling about him as he wheeled to face Bane again. An angry, determined scowl lined what could be seen of his face, a face paled by his days spent in the darkness of the pit.

            Taking his time, oblivious now to the hundreds of men fighting around him, Bane climbed the steps. At the top it was Batman who went on the offensive. With a roar, he swung a roundhouse left. Bane blocked it before it could connect with the mask, turning his enemy so he could drive a fist against his back, right where it had been broken months earlier. Batman cried out in pain. As he tried to recover, turning toward Bane, Bane’s left hand slammed into his sternum, knocking out his air and driving him backward.

            Batman recovered quickly, straightening as Bane pursued at his same leisurely but relentless gait. Bane shot out a right arm to try to grab Batman by the neck. Two flashing, gauntleted arms foiled him. His enemy pressed in close to limit the range and power of any further blows. Bane’s left-handed attempt for his adversary’s neck was thwarted as well, their faces so close now that he could feel Batman’s breath on his cheeks. A black fist sought Bane’s mask, but Bane clamped onto it, stopping it short. Unflinchingly, Bane stared back at the growling Batman as their arms each sought to win the struggle. A stunning new strength was behind Batman’s grip, one that had been lacking in the sewer, but Bane refused to be concerned.

            With his left arm wrapped around his foe, Bane tried to unbalance him while their hands remained locked. But the Batman managed to stay solidly on his feet. Now instead of his hand pressing toward Bane, it shifted unexpectedly outward, altering Bane’s own balance and breaking their hold. With lightning speed, Batman blasted him with a staggering uppercut. Bane’s left arm, however, maintained a tenuous hold, even as a follow-up blow rang against the mask, followed in rapid succession by another. A driving elbow slammed into Bane’s chest, pushing him downward enough to at last break his grip. Batman grappled to keep him bent over, but Bane reared up and drove his head into his adversary’s chest like a charging bull, forcing him back, gasping for air.

            Police and mercenaries continued their own personal wars all around them on the steps of City Hall. One such battle came between Bane and Batman, but Bane flung the cop to the side, never looking away from his foe or halting his pursuit.

            Bane brought his guard up, deflected another left-hand blow from Batman, but the blur of a right-hand follow-up surprised Bane, snapped his head to the left. Before he could recover, the same black arm flashed back toward him, and the row of metal, jagged, retractable fins on Batman’s gauntlet raked the mask with painful force. A depressurized hiss assaulted Bane’s ears, sent instant terror through him.

            _No!_

            An outraged bellow echoed through the mask. With a quick glance downward, he could see several of the metal tubes on the left side of the mask separated and askew, could feel the flexible tube that ran along the left side of the mask to the canister dangling. Instinctively his hands came up to reach for the damage, but he knew there was no time for repairs. Batman lunged for him. All Bane could do was throw him against a nearby pillar, all the while emitting enraged growls of pain as his precious vapor began to fail him. Bane’s trembling fingers frantically tried to reconnect the small tubes. But there was no time. The Batman came at him again, determined to keep him vulnerable and broken, to exploit the mask’s failure.

            His enemy swung again, but Bane roared back with an outstretched right backhand. He followed with a desperate left, but struck only air. He staggered, again scrabbled to stifle the escape of the vapor. No time. He needed to end this before the mask’s canisters were depleted. Heart pounding with fury, he aimed a right at the cowl, but his opponent blocked the effort. Bane’s thunderous body blow drove out Batman’s breath before Bane tossed him toward another pillar then charged before the man could recover. Pinning him there, Bane battered him in every region, blinded by pain and rage, so blinded that he did not even notice his prey had finally ducked beneath the blows and escaped. Automatically Bane’s punches continued, this time against the pillar before he realized and wheeled to pursue his opponent who had backed toward the glass doors of City Hall.

            Talia! She was inside. He could not violate his promise to break their enemy; he could not let her down.

            Snarling furiously, Bane swung almost without seeing, never coming close to his target, his eyes beginning to water and sting from the rising tide of agony. Everything he aimed at the blurred black shape gained nothing. He felt Batman grab his right shoulder, steady him then slam another explosive punch into the mask, spinning Bane so that he was now closest to the doors. Another blow followed. Bane’s flailing flurry of defensive punches missed or were blocked, but Bane would not relent, not until yet another side-arm swing of Batman’s gauntlet raked the mask and an uppercut flung him nearly off his feet. With a determined roar, Batman’s kick to the chest sent Bane backward, crashing through the doors of City Hall.

            Bane landed on his hands and knees at the top of a short flight of steps. He could not breathe, no matter how much he gasped for air, and so he could not stand. Another kick flung him down the bruising marble steps to tumble across the cold lobby floor. Distantly he was aware of a secondary struggle, heard blows, wondered vaguely if Barsad had arrived.

            Through the blur, Bane saw a small dark figure off to the side. No mercenary that small. No, it was Talia, awaiting her moment. But how could she overpower Batman on her own? He had failed to weaken their enemy for her final triumph. Failed her, just as he had failed her mother…

            “Cover the doors!” Batman’s gravelly voice bounced around the cavernous room as Bane realized he was talking to Miranda Tate.

            Bane rose shakily to hands and knees, but another well-aimed kick rolled him onto his belly, up against a marble reception desk.

            “Where’s the trigger!” Batman demanded.

            Though he knew there was no escape for him now, no hope, Bane instinctively tried to crawl away from the source of torment.

            “Where is it?” The verbal and physical assault continued as Batman dragged Bane to his feet, slammed him face down against the desk. Gauntleted hands urgently frisked Bane, seeking the detonator that was not there. “You’d never give it to an ordinary citizen! Where is it?”

            He whipped Bane onto his back, continued to shout his question. Even if he had wanted to, Bane could not respond. Unconsciousness hovered close, but he would not succumb. He needed to reconnect the tubes, needed to breathe in his strength so he could protect Talia; she could not defeat the Batman in the man’s current powerful state.

            Yet Bane was nearly powerless, weakened by the crashing waves of agony that flooded him, tried to drown him. A final, devastating blow to the mask snapped his head back, and the apparatus gave another ominous hiss. If he had had the strength, he would have screamed against the consuming pain. A brief flash came into his mind’s eye, a vision of the beating he had suffered in the pit prison when Talia had escaped, that overwhelming crush of men, the suffocation and endless blows, the utter helplessness.

            Forcing away the flashback, Bane made one final, futile effort to reach the damaged mask, but Batman mercilessly knocked away his every attempt. When finally freed, Bane fell to the floor again, crumpled and spent, uttering a single, tremulous moan, the weakest sound he had ever made, the sound of incomprehensible defeat.

            Those black gloved hands grasped him again, sat him up against the desk. Bane could barely focus on his foe even though their faces were mere inches apart.

            “Tell me where the trigger is,” Batman ordered, quieter now, breathing hard. “Then, you have my permission to die.”

            Those words. Bane’s own words. Mocking him. Arrogant. But Bane could only stare at him, for a moment his vision clearing. Behind Batman, Talia approached, and Bane knew all was not lost. He needed to keep their enemy’s focus on him, not on the knife that was coming nearer.

            “I broke you,” Bane struggled to say. “How have you come back?”

            “You think you’re the only one who could learn the strength to escape. Where’s the trigger?”

            It was time the Batman knew the truth, the truth that was now slipping silently up behind him. A truth too late to save him. “But I never escaped,” Bane croaked out with his very last ounce of strength. He enjoyed the surprise in his enemy’s dark eyes—Doctor Assad had not shared Talia’s secret; he had remained loyal to the child whose mother he had betrayed.

            “But the child,” Batman uttered, “the child of Rā’s al Ghūl made the climb…”

            Then Talia was there, kneeling beside Batman, saying, “But he’s not the child of Rā’s al Ghūl.” With smooth precision she drove her father’s blade between the protective panels of the Batsuit. Batman cried out, grabbed Talia’s left shoulder. “I am,” she finished her revelation, twisting the blade that was buried to the hilt. “And though I’m not ordinary,” she displayed the trigger in her right hand, “I’m a citizen.”

            Batman made a weak grab for the glowing detonator, but Talia smugly pulled it beyond reach, her cold, triumphant eyes never leaving his.

            “Miranda…why?”

            “Talia.” Her expression softened as she spoke of Melisande, “My mother named me Talia before she was killed, the way I would’ve been killed if not for my protector,” her gaze grew mild as she turned to her helpless protector and spoke his name with tenderness and appreciation, “Bane.”

            But Bane could barely see her now, barely hear her as the pain pulled him away from her, toward unconsciousness. He felt her gentle touch against the mask and realized she was reconnecting the tubes as she continued with her narrative, as calm as if they were alone back in his room.

            “I climbed out of the pit. I found my father…and brought him back to exact terrible vengeance.”

            Bane returned to that day, felt again the light touch of Rā’s al Ghūl upon his arm where he had sat in the shaft, swathed, tormented and awaiting death. The sound of gunfire throughout the stepwell, his future brothers arriving to save him.

            “By that time,” Talia’s melodious voice continued from afar, taking on an edge of pity and anger, “the prisoners and doctor had done their work to my friend, my protector.”

            While she spoke, her reconstruction continued on the mask. What was left of the vapor began to flow stronger, surging through Bane like a balm. His sight began to sharpen, and he could see her clearer now, so close, so strong, looking only at him. She was bringing him back to life. His protector.

            “The League took us in, trained us. But my father could not accept Bane. He saw only a monster whose very existence reminded him of the hell he had left his wife to die in.” Her tone hardened. “He excommunicated Bane from the League of Shadows.”

            Against his will, a tear escaped Bane’s right eye, trailing hotly down to the rejuvenated mask. A tear of pain, both physical and emotional, drawn out by her quiet account, by the memory of that terrible day in the mountains and all those since.

            “His only crime,” Talia continued, “was that he loved me.” A smile curved her lips ever so slightly, her gaze tender, the love reflected there renewing his strength and resolve. “I could not forgive my father.” All warmth instantly fled from her when she turned back to Batman as another tear trickled down Bane’s cheek. “Until you murdered him.”

            Bane rallied, willing his body to respond, to act, to do what was necessary to finish this. It took a Herculean effort, but he struggled to his feet, his eyes now on the sawed-off shotgun beside the prone League member whom Batman had rendered unconscious. He staggered toward the man as Wayne responded to Talia’s words about her father.

            “He was trying to kill millions of innocent people.”

            Bane retrieved the shotgun—he would not have the strength to kill his enemy with his bare hands as preferred—and gathered up a length of dark rope beside his fallen brother, then lumbered back to Batman as Talia countered the man’s ridiculous defense.

            “Innocent is a strong word to throw around Gotham, Bruce.”

            Bane set aside the shotgun and began to wrap the line around his victim’s throat and wrists.

            “I honor my father by finishing his work.” Talia’s thumb slid the safety away from the detonator’s trigger as Batman gasped and watched helplessly. “Vengeance against the man who killed him is simply a reward for my patience. You see,” she said in almost a sensual whisper, “it’s the slow knife, the knife that takes its time, the knife that waits years without forgetting, then slips quietly between the bones. That’s the knife that cuts deepest.”

            Her thumb hovered tantalizingly above the trigger, and Bane drew in what he figured would be his last breath. He was prepared; they were here together, their betrayer defeated at his feet. Soon the pain would be gone forever.

            “Please…” Batman tried one pitiful supplication.

            Talia pressed the trigger. Agonizing seconds passed. Nothing.

            Nothing!

            But Talia remained calm, even as angry disappointment turned her face toward the windows, as if searching for the blast that had not come.

            “Maybe,” Batman panted, “the knife was too slow.”

            Talia glared at him.

            Just then Barsad came rushing through the shattered front doors, gun at the ready. It was about time his lieutenant showed up, Bane thought.

            “The truck is under attack,” Barsad said, sounding winded, alarmed.

            “Gordon,” Talia crooned sarcastically at her caped victim. “You gave him a way to block my signal. No matter.” She yanked her father’s blade out of Batman’s side, and the man wilted. The blood would flow cleanly now. “He’s bought Gotham eleven minutes.” With that, she got to her feet and addressed Barsad whose eyes were on Bane. “Prepare a convoy. We must secure the bomb until it detonates.”

            Reluctant, Barsad held Bane’s gaze as he backed away, as if to make sure this was what his brother wanted. Silent, Bane allowed him to withdraw, knowing it would be the last time he saw his friend.

            Talia stared down at Batman with pure disdain then lifted her eyes to Bane standing behind him, the rope secure. “Don’t kill him,” she ordered before addressing their enemy again. “I want him to feel the heat, feel the fire of twelve million souls you failed.”

            Then she stepped close enough to reach over Batman as if he were no longer there and touch her fingers gently to Bane’s mask. Bane could do nothing but hold her haunting gaze and interpret the dozens of memories and emotions there. How he wanted to take her from here, far away to someplace safe, to fulfill the obligation he had accepted since the day of her birth.

            “Good-bye, my friend,” Talia said.

            In that familiar gesture of affection, her finger brushed horizontally across the mask’s grating, and Bane swore his lips could feel her touch. Then she turned away and marched resolutely through the door, out into the bright winter light, away from him. Barsad stood on the portico, waiting to escort her. After one final glance toward Bane, he followed Talia. Bane thought of his plan to have Barsad safeguard Talia out of the city, but even if Barsad attempted it, there was not enough time remaining for success. At least his friend would be there to protect her to the end, to do what Bane could not. Talia would not be alone when she met her death.

            The final sight of those he loved fanned the flames of Bane’s hatred and rage against the man kneeling at his feet. His attention went to Batman, and he reached for the shotgun. For a moment, he watched the doorway to be sure Talia would not return and see him disobey her direct order.

            “We both know that I have to kill you now,” Bane said calmly to his enemy.

            Rage flared up and empowered his depleted body to kick Batman over, as he had done to him moments ago. Bane pointed the shotgun in the masked man’s face and snarled, “You’ll just have to imagine the fire!”

            A flash of light, as brilliant as the sun. A deafening explosion that sent Bane hurtling through the air. He felt himself falling, falling as he had long ago when he had tried to climb the prison shaft. But this time there was nothing to stop his downward plunge back into darkness.


	60. Chapter 60

            At first Bane thought the man’s voice belonged to Rā’s al Ghūl, the hand upon his arm reminiscent of Rā’s’ in the pit when his rescuer had arrived. Had they been reunited in death? Yet, if he were dead, why was there still so much physical pain, much more than even when the Batman had been manhandling him, and why was the mask still gripping his face?

            “Bane,” the voice came again, faint and barely penetrating the ringing, muffled quality of Bane’s hearing. “Brother, can you hear me?”

            Cold fingers against Bane’s carotid artery.

            “I’ve got a pulse.”

            Barsad.

            Bane did not open his eyes, fearful that the bright light of the explosion would still be there to torment him.

            “Find something to use as a stretcher!” Barsad shouted at someone. “Hurry before we’re discovered, dammit!”

            Chilled, slimy fingers gripped Bane’s even colder hand. Not Talia’s fingers as he wished. No, he would never feel her touch again. Yet…if Barsad was alive, if _he_ was alive, that meant the bomb had not gone off. And if the bomb had not gone off, perhaps Talia was also still alive. Was she near? Had she come back for him as Barsad had?

            “Hang on, brother,” Barsad beseeched.

            Bane felt strong pressure against his chest. Barsad trying to staunch the bleeding. Blood. That explained the sticky moistness of his lieutenant’s fingers. Bane sensed someone with his friend. Not Talia. No, another man, one of the mercs perhaps, or one of his brothers.

            “Move your hand,” Barsad ordered the man. “I need to replenish the mask.”

            Both Barsad and Bane always carried a small supply of crystals for the mask in case of emergencies or separation from their base of supplies. He could feel Barsad opening one of the canisters. Soon a fresh, strong flow of the drug greeted Bane, giving him the strength to finally crack his eyes open.

            He stared upward to a distant ceiling, tried to remember where he had last been. Then Barsad’s drawn face hovered close, blood smeared amidst the stubble on his chin. Relief brought life back into Barsad’s blue eyes.

            “Stay with me, Bane. We’re gonna get you outta here. Hang on.”

            It seemed an age before Bane could command his voice to say, “Talia?”

            “We’re looking for her. Don’t worry about her right now; we’ll find her. Just lie still. God dammit, where’s that stretcher?”

            Rushing boots drew near. Something was set on the floor beside Bane. He could not look, could not hold his eyes open any longer.

            “’ _Eth_ _Alth’eban_ ,” Bane rasped, barely audible.

            “No,” Barsad said with conviction and authority. “I’m taking you to Maysam.”

#

            Sometimes Bane heard voices. Mainly men, but sometimes women. Various languages: English, Urdu, Arabic. They never spoke to him, always around him, over him. He could neither look for them nor respond, though he tried many, many times, but the blackness had an unbreakable hold upon him, inescapable, like the pit. Unconscious, not dead; he was quite certain. But how had he survived the bomb blast? Or had the blast that had struck him been from something else?

            A couple of times he thought he heard his mother, but after all these years would he truly be able to recognize her voice? Other times he heard a woman who sounded very much like Melisande. Strange how he could remember her voice so well. Always he listened for Talia among the disembodied but never detected her, and he despaired.

            There was one consistent voice, a stalwart presence that never seemed to leave him during those times when he was aware of sound. Barsad. Few of his lieutenant’s words were decipherable, for they were often jumbled in with the other voices, but Bane was confident that it was Barsad. A variety of emotional tones colored his friend’s speech: anger, insistence, stubbornness, and now and then—when the other voices were not present—a quiet, despondent desperation; the fear of losing a second brother.

            Another sensation besides sound populated Bane’s shadow world: pain. His age-old companion. But this pain was different from that which the mask held at bay. It inhabited his entire being, weighed upon him, drained him to utter helplessness and a desire for death. But he would not allow himself to give up, not when he was unsure of Talia’s safety, of whether or not she lived. If he were to succumb, he would not do so until he had the answers to his questions.

#

            Rhythmical beeps, mechanical ones, reminding Bane of the countdown clock on the bomb. No. That was from another time, long ago. He tried to comprehend. This sound was different, yet somehow familiar. He could hear it clearly, close, the first such distinctness he had experienced since plunging into the blackness. Even the blackness was different now, lighter, gray, dissolving like the mist over Lake Geneva in one of the photos Talia had sent to him from her school days at Le Rosey. The beeping… He had heard it before, ages ago. Where had he been? Bane tried to relax his mind, allow his memories to flow. The persistent pain in his body helped him remember, helped him map out the memory. A medical clinic beyond the pit. He had been taken there after breaking his back. It was there that he had first heard those mechanical beeps.

            Beyond the cadence of the blips came a secondary sound, raspy, decidedly not clinical, but Bane could not place it right away.

            The fog blanketing his brain, his vision, continued to lift, to thin, infusing him with vague excitement. Soon he would have the answers to so many questions that had battered him in the darkness.

            This time when Bane tried to open his eyes, his heavy lids responded, though painstakingly slow. The natural light in the room was dim. Muted sunlight, as if all that separated him from it were curtains or blinds behind where he lay. He was thankful for this muteness, for it made the transition to consciousness bearable after being deprived of light for so long. Sunlight. He was not underground; he was not at _’Eth_ _Alth’eban_.

            On his back, he lay in a hospital bed, but judging from the lavish, vaguely familiar décor he was not in a hospital. The obstruction of the mask’s profile caused him to crane his neck in order to fully view his body. The heaviness and discomfort in his chest was explained by a swath of bandages. An IV ran into his arm. Both arms bore bandages, but nothing of any substance. He could feel the healing lacerations beneath them. If healing had already begun, then he had been here some time. Curious and hopeful, he wiggled his toes. Seemingly little damage to his lower extremities. And judging from the feel of a catheter, the other mechanics of nature were still attached.

            Then he realized what covered the lower half of his body—Melisande’s blanket. Lovingly, gratefully his fingers traveled over the fabric.

            When he turned his head to look at the monitors to which he was tethered, he realized from where the other, unidentified noise originated. A tiny smile struggled to manifest behind the mask. How had he not recognized _that_ sound?

            Barsad slept in a chair just beyond the right-hand monitor, head inclined, mouth drooping, snoring. The stubble Bane had last seen shadowing his friend’s face had grown into a beard, his hair longer and untrimmed, but not unkempt. He no longer wore his military garb but instead a simple loose-fitting shirt and khaki cargo pants. The sight was so incongruous to Bane and his muddled mind that he simply studied his friend, listening to him snore.

            They were alone, and peacefulness swept over Bane, regardless of his physical distress. No ringing phones, no couriers coming and going, no staff bustling about. Just the two of them and the benign machines.

            Though Bane knew he should let his obviously-exhausted friend sleep, his own pressing questions demanded answers. He tried to speak, but at first nothing came out of his dry mouth. His throat was raw, no doubt from being intubated for a length of time. How long? Swallowing gingerly, he tried again.

            “Barsad.”

            His friend snored on.

            Unsuccessfully Bane tried to raise his voice. “Barsad.”

            Nothing.

            Bane lifted his hand—a surprisingly laborious endeavor—and rested it on the bed rail. Using the pulse oximeter on his index finger, he tapped stridently upon the rail until his lieutenant stirred. With a choking snort, Barsad awoke, his heavy-lidded eyes bleary, but they quickly cleared when he saw Bane staring at him. A broad smile of relief spread Barsad’s well-defined lips as he stood and drew closer to the bed.

            “Welcome back, brother.”

            “Talia?” Bane hoarsely asked.

            “She’s here. I’ll let her know you’re awake.”

            Relieved, Bane momentarily closed his eyes, breathed easier. “Where am I?”

            “The palace in Rajasthan.”

            Bane tried to scowl, but it was too much effort. “We are putting Maysam in undue peril.”

            “She understands the risks. But she instructed me long ago to bring you here should anything…unfortunate happen in Gotham.”

            “The bomb?”

            Barsad frowned. “Batman flew it out of the city. It detonated over the bay, taking him with it. Gotham was unscathed.” His frown deepened. “I’m sorry, brother.”

            Surprisingly the news did not move Bane. He gestured to himself. “Then how did all this happen? I remember nothing.”

            “Our old friend Selina Kyle, I’m afraid. I saw her riding the Bat Pod down the steps of City Hall shortly after I left you. Judging from your wounds when I found you, she let you have it with a blast from the Pod.” He shook his head in amazement. “It’s a fucking miracle you survived. If not for your vest, you sure as shit wouldn’t be here talking to me right now.”

            “So you came back to City Hall? You should have left me, brother. You had your duty to Talia—”

            “Well, I got a bit sidetracked by a bullet. Like you, only my vest stood between me and eternity that day.” He produced his familiar nonchalant grin.

            A cold sensation trailed down Bane’s spine. “Was Talia wounded?”

            Now Barsad’s grin died, instantly fueling Bane’s concern. “She was, but she’s here, recovering like you.”

            Bane’s fingers curled around the rail, and the machine monitoring his heartrate emitted faster beeps. “How bad was she injured?”

            Barsad avoided his eyes. “The doctor’s hopeful that she’ll make a full recovery. It’ll just take some time.”

            “What happened?”

            “She was driving the truck that carried the bomb. Batman was in pursuit in the Bat, and Catwoman was helping him from the Bat Pod. They took out the Tumblers, but Talia kept going. Batman blasted the shit out of the truck. She ended up plunging down one of the accesses onto the lower street.”

            “And?” Bane demanded impatiently, knowing Barsad was trying to protect him.

            Barsad sighed in capitulation. “She suffered severe trauma to her cervical spine.”

            Agitation drew Bane to an upright sitting position. “Where is she?” His forceful words were like glass down his sore throat. “I must go to her.”

            Barsad took a hold of his arm. “God dammit, Bane. You’re not getting outta this bed. You’ve had two major surgeries, and you’ve been in a coma for weeks.”

            Bane glared at him, ignoring the lightheadedness swirling the room as he struggled to swing his legs over the side of the bed. Carefully Barsad held him back, amazingly strong, or was he himself really that weak?

            “I’m telling you,” Barsad continued angrily, “you try to stand you’re gonna fall flat on your face.”

            “The wheelchair.” Bane pointed to a large wheelchair folded against the wall.

            “Hell, no. You’re staying put, you damn maniac, or I’ll tell ’em to put you back into a coma.”

            Futilely Bane tried to shove away Barsad’s hands. He would have head-butted his lieutenant out of the way if he had had the strength.

            “Unhand me, Barsad. I _will_ see her. Either now or when you leave this room.”

            Barsad glared in frustration, his jaw clenched. “I’m telling you, she’s fine. She wouldn’t want you out of bed. If you won’t listen to me, then at least respect her wishes.”

            “The wheelchair,” Bane gritted out the order.

            “God dammit, Bane—”

            “Now, or I’ll pull out this IV and rip open my stitches.”

            “Jesus Christ, they should have sedated you into next year.”

            “The chair.”

            “Fine. Then when you fall on your face, what’re you gonna do? Crawl to her? I’m not gonna pick you up. You don’t even know where she is.”

            “I will find her.”

            Muttering to himself, Barsad retrieved the chair and unfolded it, snugged it against the bed and locked the brake. After pulling the IV pole close and removing the heart monitor’s electrodes from Bane’s chest, Barsad helped his trembling friend slide awkwardly down into the wheelchair. Bane could not stifle a groan. Breathing was difficult, and it felt as if a fire burned within his chest. His head swam, and sound grew distant for a moment as his vision darkened.

            “This is insanity,” Barsad grumbled as Bane used Melisande’s blanket to conceal his catheter bag, spreading the blanket across his lap and the ridiculous cotton gown. “Talia and Maysam are gonna have my balls for allowing this.”

            Struggling to regain clarity, Bane assured, “They know me well enough to know I gave you no choice. Now push, brother.”

            He would not admit to Barsad that he had not the strength to propel the wheelchair with his own hands. Instead he gripped the IV pole the best he could so it would accompany him.

            “Why am I in the palace and not in the guesthouse?”

            “Maysam’s orders. She runs the show here, brother. You’re out of your depth.”

            As Barsad pushed him down the hallway—not an easy task, considering Bane’s substantial weight and the carpet beneath the wheels—Bane looked forward to seeing Maysam, yet at the same time he dreaded the reunion. He was the world’s most wanted criminal, and if that infamy brought harm or ruin to her, he would never forgive himself. As soon as possible, he would put as much distance between them as he could.

            “I’m assuming you have safety measures in place,” Bane said, desperately wishing he could remove the mask and quench his raging thirst by guzzling a gallon of water.

            “Of course. Our brothers are working in conjunction with Amir’s security forces. They’ve set up a strong perimeter and both infrared and satellite monitoring.”

            “I’m not comfortable utilizing Amir’s men.”

            “Neither am I, but like I said, Maysam is in charge.” He gave a small laugh. “You think _you’re_ a slave driver…”

            Bane growled, “Barsad—”

            “She has a point about Amir the Snake—he knows he would be implicated if he dared notify the authorities about us. After all, there are few men in this region of the world with more to hide from law enforcement than Amir. And few with more to lose. So the birds of a feather must flock together, as they say.”

            “I don’t like it.”

            “I didn’t expect you would, brother. But remember who my boss was before you.” He chuckled with a slight tone of licentiousness and uncharacteristically patted Bane’s shoulder. “But don’t worry. Once you’re able to travel, we’ll be leaving. Just don’t mention it to Maysam, though. Let her believe we’ll be her guests for a while.”

            “At the very least, _you_ must leave immediately, Barsad. As _de facto_ commander of the League now, it’s imperative you remain safe.”

            “I’m not going anywhere. Finn’s at the helm for now, so things are in good hands.”

            Bane growled. “We will discuss this further after I see Talia and you debrief me.”

            Barsad patted him again. “Only if you’re a good boy and promise to take a nap.”

            “Barsad,” Bane threatened.

            “Too early for humor? Well, forgive me, brother, but these past few weeks haven’t exactly been filled with a shitload of things to laugh about, so you’ll just have to indulge me this one time.”

            Bane frowned at himself. “I’m sorry for being churlish, brother. I owe you my life.”

            “Well, what I did was nothing less than what you’ve done for me more than once over the years, so consider us even.”

            Bane allowed Barsad’s good nature to rub off on him enough to draw a smile to his dry lips.

            “Here we are,” Barsad said, stopping the wheelchair in front of a door guarded by two armed men, one of them quite familiar.

            “It’s good to see you out of bed, sir.”

            “I’m pleased to see you as well, Yemi, and to see that you still serve our sister.”

            “Is she awake?” Barsad softly asked Yemi. “He wants to see her.”

            “Whether she sleeps or not,” Bane said, “I will see her.”

            Yemi looked to Barsad for confirmation.

            “He won’t be long,” Barsad assured. “Will you, Bane?”

            “I will not tax her.”

            “She’s not the one I’m worried about,” Barsad said.

            “Open the door,” Bane ordered.

            Trying to stifle an amused smile, Yemi opened the door and held it thus until Barsad had wheeled Bane inside.

            The bedroom, like Bane’s, was spacious and richly furnished and decorated, reflecting the culture and heritage of Maysam’s family. A single window took up most of one wall, but the drapes were drawn except for where the side sash was open. A wonderful, warm breeze that stretched all the way to the door moved the edge of the curtains back and forth like a breathing thing, and bright sunlight fell across the rich, colorful rugs, making the Gotham winter seem like a long ago dream. There was a king-sized bed in the room as well as a hospital bed. The latter was angled away from the door, facing the window and a television—currently turned off—that sat upon a dresser in the corner. One end of the bed was partially raised so the patient was reclining, denying Bane’s view. Beside the bed, standing from her chair, was Maysam, her lined face opening with surprise.

            “Haris,” she spoke as if her breath had been stolen from her. “How good it is to see you awake.” She crossed quickly over to him, causing Barsad to halt. Then, ignoring all religious convention, she bent to kiss Bane’s cheek and touch his shoulder. Her brown gaze shifted to Barsad, darkening a bit with rebuke. “But you should not be out of bed.”

            “Save your breath, Maysam,” Barsad said. “But don’t worry, he promises he won’t stay long. Right, brother?”

            It took all of Bane’s self-restraint to keep from demanding that Barsad shut up and push him to Talia’s bed.

            “Bane?” a small, sleepy voice called out.

            Automatically his body tried to go to Talia, but both Maysam and Barsad gently kept him in the chair. Maysam stepped back so Barsad could wheel Bane over to the bed.

            When Talia saw him, tears filled her eyes, and she reached out, whispering his name, choked by emotion. With tears of his own making his vision swim, he took her hand in his, struck dumb by the shocking sight of his beloved. She wore a halo vest and brace—a dark metal band encircled her shaved head, and at intervals four evil-looking bolt-like pins went through the band and pierced her flesh, butting up against her skull to stabilize her head; also attached to the halo were four steel rods, two anterior, two posterior, that were anchored upon the vest, further ensuring the stability of her healing spine. The absence of her lustrous hair reminded him of her childhood in the pit when he and Melisande had kept her head shaved to help hide her gender. He knew the halo did not require hair to be removed except near the pin sites, so he wondered why she had gone to the extreme. Yet already it had begun to grow back, and he remembered how quickly it had done so once she had been freed from prison.

            Bane gently squeezed her hand, his IV tugging at his flesh. “How are you, _habibati_?”

            “Better, now that you’re here; we’ve all been so worried.” Concern drew lines at the corners of her mouth. “But like _Jiddah_ said, you should not be out of bed.”

            “I have been in bed long enough. I had to see you. Barsad told me what happened.”

            “Barsad,” Maysam softly said, touching his elbow. “Let us leave these two alone for a few minutes. I can have some tea brought out to the veranda for us.”

            Barsad hesitated with a glance at Bane.

            “Go, brother. No doubt you are overdue in serving your vile tobacco master,” Bane teased.

            Barsad scoffed at him. “Well, don’t get comfortable here. I’ll be dragging you back to your room as soon as I return.”

            Maysam smiled at their banter and crooked a finger to encourage Barsad to follow her out.

            Once the door had been closed behind them, Bane turned back to Talia. They smiled melancholy smiles, their hands still joined. Then Talia’s gaze dropped.

            “I have failed my father,” she murmured.

            “You have nothing to be ashamed of, _habibati_. The responsibility for failure lies with me. I should have killed the Batman.”

            “But I told you not to. You were following orders.”

            “No.” He shook his head and freed her hand. “I defied your orders. I was about to kill him when Selena Kyle intervened. But I should have killed him long before. I should have killed him in the sewer the first time we crossed paths. My pride is to blame.”

            “No, you were thinking of me, as always. You knew I wanted Wayne alive to have my moment of vengeance. I wanted him to see his utter and complete failure. You must not blame yourself for any of this. I won’t hear it. Besides, he’s dead now. So, although Gotham still stands, at least my father’s murderer has been eliminated.”

            Bane smiled a bit at her wisdom and her effort to comfort him. “Of course you are right, as usual, my dear. And truth be told, because of Temujin, Wayne’s death holds more importance to me than Gotham’s destruction, selfish as that may sound. Justice was served at last.”

            “Yes,” she returned his smile, but he could see sadness behind it, her feelings of having let her father down. “So it looks like you got your wish—Barsad got me out of Gotham in one piece after all. And I can’t tell you how pleased I am that he did the same for you.”

            “He should not have brought us _here_ , though,” Bane grumbled.

            “It’s what _Jiddah_ wanted, what she begged of him long ago. He concealed his promise from us, of course. She says we will recuperate better here, in the house of someone who loves us. Trust me, Bane, I’ve tried to dissuade her, and I know you will, too, but she’s unmovable.” Talia paused, stared at her unpolished, short fingernails, absently rubbed them. “Though I don’t like the danger it puts her in—and you can imagine how Amir feels about us being here—I have to say that I’m glad we’re here, with her, I mean. I don’t know what I would’ve done without her after first being brought here.”

            “Tell me of your injuries, _habibati_ , and how we came to be here.”

            “Barsad didn’t tell you?”

            “I gave him no time to expound beyond telling me the basic nature of your injuries. I came here as soon as I awoke.”

            Her long lashes raised, unveiling her eyes to him once again as she began to tell him of her cervical surgery, of the initial swelling that had caused temporary paralysis. As she spoke of this helplessness, Bane could see her reliving the terror of those days, and he bitterly regretted not being there for her. She told him of Barsad’s heroic efforts to safeguard them out of Gotham and across the river, to a safe location where one of the League’s surgeons performed the first operation on Bane, which saved his life. Once stabilized, they were both flown to Jaipur where an orthopedic surgeon, also on the League’s payroll, operated on Talia.

            “Barsad told me your prognosis is good,” Bane said hopefully. “It would appear he was telling me the truth and not just protecting me. You look well, all things considered.”

            “I’ll improve even more now that I know you’re on the road to recovery. I’ve been out of bed for some time now. I’ve sat at your bedside many times. Were you aware at all? We took turns—me, _Jiddah_ , and Barsad.”

            “No doubt it was your presence that kept me alive, _habibati_. My mind might not have been aware, but my heart was.”

            “I would read to you, like I did in the pit after your back surgery. Remember?”

            “Of course. And look,” he raised one corner of the blanket on his lap, “your mother’s blanket. However did it survive?”

            “Barsad said Yemi retrieved it. He didn’t know until the flight over when Yemi laid it over you.”

            “I must thank him on my way out.”

            They fell silent for a moment, simply looking at one another, and he wondered if she was thinking about their last moment together in Gotham, as was he. Bane placed his hand over hers.

            “What now for us, _habibati_?”

            “I’ve made no decisions. How could I without your counsel?”

            “You must not stress yourself. Barsad said Finn is running operations, and I know he will gladly continue in that role for as long as you wish it so. In fact, once you are recovered enough, I think you should take some time away from your responsibilities with the League. No one deserves downtime more than you. You have been Miranda Tate for so long. It’s time you allow Talia to return and live a little.”

            Her small laugh was cynical. “You speak as if no one is looking for me, for us. But as I told you, Selina Kyle and James Gordon were there after the crash of my vehicle. They know my true identity, and they have neither my body nor yours to assure them that we are indeed dead and no longer a threat.”

            “I don’t fear their newfound knowledge, and neither should you. You will be protected always.”

            “But what about you? It won’t be as easy for the Masked Man to conceal himself, and I don’t want to see you holed up in _’Eth Alth’eban_ like some caged tiger either.”

            “I will do whatever is necessary for our survival.”

            Talia hesitated, wet her lips in almost a nervous gesture. “There is a potential way to disguise you, something _Jiddah_ and I discussed, to help ensure that you won’t be recognized.”

            “As I said, Talia, I’m not concerned—”

            “But I am, and so is _Jiddah_. Just listen, Bane, please.”

            Keen not to argue with her, he indulged her with a nod of acquiescence and allowed her to continue.

            “There is a plastic surgeon in New Dehli. World-renown. I’ve been researching him—”

            “No, Talia.”

            “Bane, listen—”

            “I have no desire to cosmetically reinvent myself, especially under the hands of yet another doctor. If you recall, there is a certain doctor who contributed to this,” he gestured to his masked face. “I care little for the medical community. An undertaking such as that of which you speak would take multiple surgeries over a long period of time, and even then there is no guarantee of success. I have no desire to subject myself to such torment.”

            “But, Bane, you told me yourself that you require more and more of the drugs to sustain you. What happens when they no longer help you?”

            “We will engineer something else.”

            “And if we can’t?”

            “I will find a way to endure. I always have.”

            She sighed in frustration and covered his hand with hers. “Barsad told me you would refuse me. But promise me this,” she smiled sadly, “Haris. Promise me you will at least think about it. If they caught both of us, you are the one who would suffer the worst fate between us; you are the face of Gotham’s occupation, not me. It will be much easier for them to revile you than me. You know how the world works in such matters.” She trailed a gentle finger over the back of his hand, a tiny sensation that had immense power. “I couldn’t bear to see you in their hands; I couldn’t bear to continue on without you. So I’m asking you to promise that you will at least consider my suggestion.”

            The door to the room unceremoniously opened, and Barsad marched back in, Maysam in his wake.

            “All right, time’s up,” Barsad announced, looking much improved after his cigarette. Or was it his time spent with Maysam on the veranda that had renewed him?

            Bane scowled at him. “You should knock before barging into her room, brother.”

            “What, so you can tell me to get lost?” He tossed a grin over his shoulder at Maysam before stepping behind Bane’s wheelchair and taking hold of the handles. “If you’re done with him, Talia, I’ll take our wayward brother back to his bed and strap him down so he’s not in here pestering you anymore today.”

            Talia smiled at his teasing. “No need for that, Barsad. If he promises to stay where he belongs for now, _I_ will be the one who visits _him_. Agreed, Bane?”

            Their companionable repartee warmed Bane, and he had no desire to dampen their spirits by arguing, so he grumbled, “Very well.”

            “But before you take him from me,” Talia said, “there is one more thing he must promise me.” She raised a leading eyebrow at Bane. “You will think of what we discussed?”

            Bane glanced at Maysam who was listening curiously, trying to keep her hands from rubbing nervously together in front of her. It was obvious she knew what Talia had asked of him and equally obvious that she was as eager as her granddaughter to hear his agreement. Bane wondered if Barsad knew as well. Perhaps so, for he could feel the unspoken pressure from all sides.

            At last he leaned forward and drew Talia’s hand gently to the mask as if to kiss it. When he freed her, she sweetly touched the grating as she had in City Hall.

            “You know I can deny you nothing, _habibati_ ,” he said, earning another smile. “You have my word—I will consider your idea.”

            Talia lifted her gaze to Maysam, and both women smiled in relief before Talia said, “You must get some sleep now, _habibi_. And when you awake, I will be there.”

            Though he did not want to leave her, the knowledge that he would indeed see her soon, that he had not lost her forever, made their parting bearable. And with one final, private smile exchanged with the woman he loved, he allowed Barsad to wheel him from the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have finally reached the end of my Child of Darkness trilogy. I hope you all enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. I would love to hear from those of you who did.
> 
> If you would like to read more of my work, I hope you check out my published novels: The Prodigal, The Alliance, and The Fortune (by S.K. Keogh), available at Amazon and other online booksellers.


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